Brave New Man
by River in Egypt
Summary: The war is won and it's a new world. It's all going to be better, right?
1. Chapter 1

**So, this is a story that came to me when I received my prompt for the Reverse Challenge 2014 over at Hawthorne & Vine. It was a manip with a sparsely dressed Draco in ties and Hermione in a very dominating stance (and clothing) above him. It is called "Death Eater Auction" and contains the slogan "Do what you want with me, Granger", done by the wonderful Absolute. Go check out her work.**

**This story turned out to be too complex for the deadline of the challenge, therefore, I had to write a replacement and only now am I able to finish it. **

**This is the first chapter. I'm aiming to be done posting in the spring.**

**Warnings: while M rated, I didn't take the obvious route from the prompt. This story is rather angsty and partially dark. If you like Orwell and Huxley, this is for you. Mentions of torture, bodily harm, swearing, substance abuse, imprisonment, political intrigue, psychological trauma and manipulations, all stuff that occurs in a war-torn country, if not explicit, at least it's being mentioned. **

**Regular disclaimer here: Don't own any of Rowling's characters, only the plot development**

**Enjoy. Let me know how you like it. Be polite, please**

**River**

**P.S. If anybody can let me know how to get more space between paragraphs, please let me know. I've shift-entered my fingers bloody, wasted time, and nothing!**

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><p>Chapter 1:<p>

"What are we going to do with the young'uns?" Spencer Scrivener queried into the exhausted silence.

A firework went off somewhere in the hallway one level up. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the interim and most likely future Minister for Magic, heard the jubilation accompanying the screeching of a fire dragon and stroked over his tired face at the two-sided image: celebration and protest.

Outside, on the streets of Wizarding London and, to be honest, in the halls of the Ministry of Magic as well, the celebrations continued, despite the summer heat. Meanwhile, inside the courtrooms Kingsley was doing his best to root out the problem behind the collapse of society as they knew it – wizarding society that is.

Kingsley Shacklebolt and his council were confident that the Muggle Prime Minister had the rest of the country well in hand. Kingsley had made sure of it in his latest meeting with the man. The Muggle Prime Minister had been a little intimidated to see Kingsley's length unfold out of his fireplace; however, having been advised that this could happen in times of turmoil, such as the country had experienced with those many natural catastrophes, he had taken a deep breath, put on an uncertain smile, and welcomed the tall, dark wizard with a manly handshake.

Kingsley smiled to himself. Yes, Muggle Great Britain was shaping up again from the ravages of the Dark Lord and his followers, and, for those who were too traumatized from it, help in the form of Obliviation could be arranged. He had explained this to the Prime Minister who had listened intensely and sworn to inform Kingsley through the picture of the old man with the wig should the need arise. It remained to be seen if he really would, but the Muggle world was not really Kingsley's concern.

His concern was what to do with the chaos on _this_ side of the Leaky Cauldron. For one, it was quite an ordeal to drive out all of Voldemort's supporters and replace them with good law-abiding citizens who had their priorities straight and who wouldn't judge their fellow wizard by his or her blood status or alignments with purebloods. Kingsley had done a remarkable job turning the Wizengamot around, if he said so himself, appointing all remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix to it, and retiring anyone who couldn't name at least one Muggle or Muggleborn member in the last five generations of their family. This measure together with the incarceration of many a member of the old pureblood families took care of a large percentage of potential and obvious Voldemort supporters, thus ensuring a future legislature that would not disadvantage a huge part of their population, namely Muggle-borns.

"A very good question, Spencer." Shacklebolt was pleased that the question had been brought up by someone other than himself. It meant that he wasn't the only one thinking. Leaning back after a long session, Kingsley mused that it often felt like he had pulled the entire re-establishment of society out of his own hat.

Much to Kingsley's chagrin, the Death Eaters had not simply laid down their wands at the long-awaited and much celebrated exodus of their leader at the Final Battle of Hogwarts on May 2, 1998. Several, especially the Lestranges and Yaxley, had taken offense and subsequently rogue factions of former Death Eaters had popped up everywhere, wreaking havoc all over the country. Helped by the speed of Apparation, they, and other miscreants, had appeared erratically throughout the nation and left destruction, screaming children, and wailing families in their wake. Thus, the administration of Wizarding Britain had doused emergency fires since the Final Battle to prevent the country from falling into an anarchistic state of total destruction. It had taken all of the early summer to capture the last fugitives. Every last Auror and helping hero had been required to tag, follow, fight, and vanquish the mindless fanatics. With them safely stored away in Azkaban and their wands snapped, it was the decision of the Ministry to dole out their sentencing.

Lucius Malfoy had been the first one apprehended, but then, he hadn't fought very hard, or at all for that matter. Standing flummoxed in the middle of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, a never before seen incredulous expression on his aristocratic face, he had basically waved a white flag. With Narcissa's hand on his wrist, he had let himself being taken away when he realized that his family's dream of pureblood domination was broken.

This had likely saved himself and his family from the vigilantism that befell their wayward counterparts.

While the revolting groups had destroyed as much of the country-they-couldn't-have as possible, the common people had believed if they threatened to punish the "friends" of these rogues, the miscreants would stop to protect those once part of their group. Unfortunately, these people had banked on loyalty that just wasn't there and almost made themselves into criminals in the process. With magic, it was just too easy to take a life or to injure a fellow wizard without a second thought. Amadeus Parkinson and his screaming wife and daughter could attest to that. There had been an incident where the Aurors had arrived in the nick of time to prevent his public execution by the people living close to his estate. Blood boiled, and boiled over, under the calm and tired surface in the people's soul simply by looking at the turn their lives had taken due to this rebellious destructive group and the climate Voldemort had evoked.

After their removal, the punishment of these rogue perpetrators was the most urgent business of the day and so the Wizengamot had come together to convey the sentencing. Permanent incarceration, without pardon, ordered for all Death Eaters and supporters who had actively worked for He-who-could-finally-be-named-because-he's-dead. Their spouses and any supporters, whose degree of involvement was uncertain, would remain under house arrest behind magical barriers until further notice and with the full intention of making it as long lasting as possible. For life if they could justify it. Out of sight, out of mind, at least for the raging public.

All would be remanded to Ministry custody at the very least, while waiting for their trials, albeit it was a foregone conclusion that the ones in Azkaban would stay there for a long, long time. Only specifics like visitation rights, whether and for how long they would stay in solitary custody, and whether to re-install the Dementors for the right atmosphere to make the evildoers suffer appropriately would be discussed. That the Azkaban inhabitants would receive more company before long from the ones under house arrest didn't need discussion.

Kingsley passed the question about the Death Eater offspring on to everybody else in the room. "What with them?"

A nervous shuffling and clueless staring was the reply.

"Well …," came a hesitant calm voice.

"Yes, Arthur? Any ideas?" Kingsley leaned forward expectantly. Arthur Weasley was one of the newly established members of the Wizengamot. Kingsley would have appointed Molly Weasley as well, but Molly had other things to deal with at the moment.

As it was, Kingsley had put all Order of the Phoenix members on the Wizengamot, including Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who were now of age and, clearly, had earned the respect of every wizard and witch by defeating Voldemort. They were part of Wizarding history and had every right to be part of the new administration. This was the least in Kingsley's power to allow. Further, they deserved to be involved in the prosecution of those who had made their lives hell for the past few years. A hell they themselves had extinguished, under great personal sacrifices.

Kingsley took a deep breath to calm his anger and shifted his attention back to the father whose family had suffered great losses due to the war. Frederic Gideon Weasley had been buried with no less honour and fanfare than Albus Dumbledore.

"Well, it may be too late for the parents to see the errors of their ways. But if we don't take care of their children, of age though they may be, then we'll have another war on hand when they are old enough. We have to give them a chance to integrate themselves into society. Right now, they are outsiders who have lost the war and they will be despised wherever they go. They will be blamed and scapegoated for their parents' involvement. But if we put them together with our young champions and make them help clean up the mess the war created, perhaps we can mold their minds and help them see how wrong it all was."

Kingsley sat up. With a beaming smile, he focused on his old comrade-in-arms. "Now, that's an idea. How would we do this?"

"We leave them in house arrest in their respective homes, private schooling if they haven't finished Hogwarts yet, and at assigned times they have to go out with our young champions."

Due to their young age, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had taken a seat a little to the side of the Wizengamot auditorium. Therefore, Ron felt perfectly entitled, and sure that his father wouldn't notice when he scoffed quietly, "We are supposed to play babysitters for former classmates?"

Hermione admonished him distractedly with a hiss, while clutching his hand beneath the balustrade, which separated the seating area from the main area, but her attention was entirely focused on the discussion. "Do you have a better idea, Ron?"

Ron threw her an angry look. After their kiss before the Final Battle, he and Hermione were dating now, albeit, with little progress so far, as there had been very little time for it. Holding hands while sitting in public and private places was pretty much the only possible option. Due to Molly's state, Hermione didn't dare to stay overnight at the Burrow, and Ron didn't feel comfortable leaving his mother alone for long. None of the brothers nor Ginny did. With Charlie back in Romania, the siblings took turns staying at home for hours at a time.

Besides, Ron knew that Hermione, just like him, collapsed from exhaustion as soon as her head was close to horizontal. Until the nightmares came.

He shook his head dejectedly. He didn't like her treating him as if he hadn't done his potions' essay on time or with the required length of parchment, but time together was precious and so he didn't want to spoil the mood. He hoped, though, that she would stop nagging at some point. He couldn't take much more of it, what with his mother's illness and his own exhaustion, and the never-ending effort to pull peace from a war-torn country.

A disgusted voice piped up, pulling Ron from his introspection. Zador Smith showed the Golden Trio exactly where his son had gotten his mistaken sense of entitlement. Ron exchanged a knowing look with Harry on his left. His best mate and the saviour of the Wizarding world looked just as worn out as they all were, his green eyes sparkling unnaturally in a pale greyish face.

"We are supposed to let this Death Eater scum live in peace in their comfortable homes while we scramble to clean up after them? Put them to work, for crying out loud, is what I say. Put them in a temporary home and make them work if they want to eat. Manage their own groceries, cooking, cleaning, learning. I'd be happy to watch over them scrubbing floors. Home schooling in their puffy armchairs? Most likely in front of cozy fireplaces with House-elves serving hot chocolate," he scoffed.

"Zador, if we mistreat them,…" Arthur Weasley jumped in and then, with an upheld hand, stalled a remark from Smith before he could protest against the accusation. "… or if we even give them reason to _believe_ that they are mistreated, we lose them. They will never understand that they are not better than us if we do the same thing they would have done with us had the Dark Lord won. We have to bring compassion to them and treat them kindly."

Of course… ." Arthur quieted the uproar from his fellow Wizengamot members with his raised hands and minimally raised voice. "Of course, they shall not go to waste the time we give them. There are enough mouths to feed, people to care for, and damages to repair. They shall help. Perhaps they will understand, with every story they read to an orphan and every stable they muck out because the owner is injured and every house they rebuild for an innocent family, that we are all in the same hot cauldron and that we have to help each other. Something that _we_ will do anyway. They may even realize that they are not entirely blameless for the state we are all in."

Subdued nodding in some areas, angry mumbling in others was Arthur's reply. He added, "I'd be more than happy to take one into my home. My wife can certainly use a hand, now that she's …." He didn't complete his sentence. It wasn't necessary. Everybody knew the state Molly Weasley was in. The loss of her son and the mutilation of two others had left a deep, festering wound.

"How is she doing today, Ron?" Harry whispered.

Ron shrugged. "Same as yesterday." He accepted the soothing hands on his shoulders from his best friends for a moment but shook them off soon. He couldn't stand what he mistook for pity for long. It only fueled his anger over the state of his family.

"Muck out the stables, that's the best I've heard." Smith spoke up again. "And why not scrub their own floors?"

"Because if we force them to their knees, literally or figuratively, they will resist, Mr. Smith."

Ron startled when the clear voice cut into the aggravated silence right next to him. All heads turned to the side where they were sitting and focused on Hermione, who had stood up. You cannot live in a tent for a year with another person without knowing that person inside out. Ron knew Hermione's body language well, and Harry's long exhale on his other side confirmed what he thought: her whole body was primed for a fight, her face set, her shoulders straightened and bent forward, her feet in an authoritative stance. Firmly focused on her classmate's father, she continued, "Do you _want_ to raise a resistance?"

Ron wanted to pull on her hand to make her to sit down again, but when she stood up she had let go of his hand and, relieved, Ron put his hands between his knees and leaned forward, until his face was hidden behind the balustrade.

He really didn't like the attention of his father and all these other administrators focused on them. He knew Harry was okay with it, but Harry had grown so much over the past year that Ron wasn't sure he would ever catch up. He was still Ron's best mate and all was good when they were idly talking about Quidditch in the evening; however, the current climate made Ron realize at every turn that their childhood was over. This was no game and there were damages that had to be fixed. Being responsible wasn't really Ron's favourite pastime.

Ron sighed when he felt Hermione still standing next to him. However, he had to be responsible for a lot, these days. With his father and brothers at work, Ron helped George in the joke shop for hours at a time, to earn some money and to help his brother with the work and Fred's absence. He also had to spend time at home with his lethargic, despondent mother. His girlfriend, who should have given him some respite with some warm, cuddly feelings, on the other hand, wasn't lethargic or despondent, but rather explosive and aggravating. These days it didn't take much to get Hermione going. Ron suppressed a huff. It wasn't as if he didn't understand, they all had one difficulty or another to deal with, but he didn't get why Hermione, not Harry, claimed to need the most understanding of them all.

Bill had taken him aside one day, after Ron and Hermione had a blazing row in the back yard over something widely insignificant and hardly worth remembering, and explained one thing or two about women to his little brother. Ron had only listened with half an ear, feeling unrightfully blamed for what was clearly one of Hermione's moods, and thought that Bill had it easy. With Fleur pregnant and his wounds healing well, he seemed to have it made, despite the anxious times. Ron saw Bill's half-mangled face on the other side of the room, next to Percy and George. Fleur had refused to join the Wizengamot, claiming her French origins and her pregnant state as valid excuses. Instead, Bill quite sufficiently represented their bond. Despite the worry lines on his forehead and his somber features, Bill Weasley carried calm like a well-fitting coat that Ron had always envied.

Even with his brother's good advice, Ron still had no idea what to do with this girlfriend of his. She certainly didn't turn out to be the comfy, warm female body he had envisioned when kissing her back in the middle of the adrenaline rush of _the _battle of their lives.

Hermione was aware that Ron was anything but pleased with her. However, she really had other things on her mind besides stroking his dissatisfied ego. Of course, she wanted to make a go of their relationship. She loved Ron, didn't she? But it was difficult to concentrate on any one thing in these busy times and it was even more difficult to tolerate people's constant _need _to be the focus of attention. Especially when so much had been lost.

Arthur Weasley sent her a small smile. It was so reminiscent of Remus Lupin's way to praise a student's achievement that it drove tears into Hermione's eyes; Remus Lupin, who was no more; and Tonks, his wife, who had been a good friend; and Teddy, their son, who would grow up an orphan.

Hermione relaxed her shoulders a bit when Smith spluttered at her sharp remark. She hadn't been aware of how tight she was holding her back. She only noticed at night, when she got home, how much of a strain she was under each and every day. When there was only one thing that would help her through the night.

"Miss Granger," he began contemptuously, "as much as I appreciate your _expertise _in defeating dark wizards -" Hermione inhaled audibly. There could hardly be any doubting her _expertise__._ What was he playing at?

"- I would appreciate more if you left the expertise of administration to those who have _much _more experience in it."

Hermione huffed in exasperation. Was he really going to challenge her with his expertise in sitting in an office chair? "Like you, you mean?" she asked waspishly.

Zador Smith's eyes glowed fervently. "Like my entire department, yes. There can hardly be any doubt that Mesdames Braithwaite, Fittleworth, and Frobisher, and Mr Gagwilde have done a remarkable job in the last decade. Despite the impeding circumstances."

Mesdames Braithwaite, Fittleworth, and Frobisher nodded concurrently.

"You may be a _new_ Wizengamot member in your own rights -" He put the emphasis on _new._ "- but you still have a lot to learn."

"Mr. Smith,…" Hermione started, but before she could set to an hour-long explanation of exactly which kind of expertise hers was, Ron grabbed her arm in a quick determined move and pulled her down to her seat. "Enough, Hermione," he hissed. "Let it go. You made your point."

Hermione sat, staring wide-eyed at her boyfriend, and wanting to make a sharp remark, but Ron glared at her, and even Harry shook his head. This was not the time to fight.

Hermione huffed again when she felt overruled and silenced and, folding her arms in front of her chest, sat back in her seat.

"I just have the safety of our paladins in mind," Zador Smith provided with a smug smile at the disappearance of his opponent. His following grimace disproved his words. "How are we going to make sure that one of them isn't overpowered by a young Death Eater, kidnapped, tortured, and what have you?"

"They are not Death Eaters, Zador," Minerva McGonagall threw in. "You cannot punish the son for his father's sins."

Smith spluttered again. His angry muttering was drowned out by a formidable witch from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes adding, "Besides, we could take their wands away for the time they are with our young fighters. Or limit the wands' capacity for spell casting, if we were worried."

"Yes, we should definitely take their wands for the night, lest they hurt themselves or each other. It's for their protection as well as ours," Millicent Bagnold said.

"Well, I want them to end up in Azkaban should they refuse to comply, with both their new lodgings and the work they are supposed to be doing. One lash, one angry remark at one of our young heroes, my son included, and they'll be shipped off before they can say Slytherin," Smith remarked snidely. His followers and a few other Wizengamot members nodded vigorously.

"Yes, thank you, Smith, I'll keep that in mind," Kingsley acknowledged this remark impatiently. "If you prefer, we can vote on this idea to re-integrate the Death Eater children by having them accompany a good example of good citizenry for a set amount of time and do manual labour to clean up the war mess. Let's say assessments every few weeks, to evaluate if we can let them go? Raise your hand if you approve of this program."

The vote passed with a two-thirds majority.

Kingsley was relieved. One less thing to worry about. "I thank you all. Now, we need volunteers who will take one such child under their wings. One per family or person will do."

After the selection of potential volunteers to care for the children of Death Eaters, there was one more thing to do for the day. The most important one, actually.

Because punishing the villains was one thing, however, charting out how to run a country after a war quite another. And the changes to be dealt with, Merlin, were manifold.

"On the account of the dark magic spell used by Voldemort supporters, what shall we do, fellow wizards and witches?" the Minister queried his council.

"What _can_ we do, Minister?" a tired looking witch asked back.

Along with a number of arduous and hotly contested policy issues, such as the one they had just resolved, there were a variety of matters, some mundane others potentially catastrophic, outside the Wizengamot chambers that remained unresolved. The strain of post-war clean up and societal rehabilitation was beginning to show on everyone's face. Until now, it seemed there had been very little progress, especially concerning the reintegration of those from the opposition forces. With a solid plan approved to take care of that problem, perhaps they could devote their energy to the threats to their society that would not be legislated into submission.

One such issue to be dealt with was the residue of the magic that the maniacal supporters of the thankfully-deceased Voldemort had used. Voldemort had done his homework, inventing and bequeathing upon his followers a spell, which contained so much dark magic that it spread when other magic was used on it, creating something like a magical black hole. It lay waste to everything beneath it, the same way a Muggle atom bomb lay waste to everything it touched; ripping every living thing in its vicinity apart. When it was cast, no other magic could ever be used on the same spot. It wasn't a pretty sight when they first tried.

To impede matters, despite the celebrations of Harry Potter's win over the timely demised, people were angry, tempers were short and rash action the order of the day. This was the very reason why Kingsley Shacklebolt had pushed the prosecution of the perpetrators to the forefront, while ordering everyone else to help with the cleanup. This kept their hands busy, while giving him time to keep the bad guys from getting lynched.

Busy hands meant tired minds, and this extra physical activity had two advantages. One was that physically- busy people slept better. This was a welcome commodity in a community that suffered the consequences of war and nightmare abundance. The second was that physically exhausted people didn't have much of a mind to think about revenge, retaliation, or any other inconvenient-while-trying-to-re-build-a-state notion. This was particularly beneficial if you needed to rebuild this state brick by brick, literally by hand, because a population, which used magic for all kinds of everyday activities, combined in most unfortunate ways with the _Apocalypto_ spell.

Therefore, an entire civilization must learn to use their hands, and not their wands, for once in their history of magic, creating unprecedented circumstances and, in some cases, surprisingly positive side effects.

They _had _to be taught to use their hands. There was no other way. The positive effect of this, as Kingsley saw it, was that many wizards and witches would be able to appreciate what Muggles had been doing for centuries, and that would actually change the attitude toward Muggle-borns. Albeit Hermione Granger was the most powerful witch of her generation, Muggle-borns were still looked at sideways. They were to some people still the inherent reason for the recent war.

Now, having to work with their hands, Muggle-borns would become everybody's new best friends because they already _knew_ how to do it. And then, finally, everybody would realize that they were all the same.

What a favourable solution.

Kingsley couldn't help feeling a little vindictive toward the former Death Eaters who would not only rot away in Azkaban, but who would also have to watch all their tripe be refuted and turned to the contrary.

Kingsley allowed himself another private smile. He would have loved to see the face of Voldemort, Merlin forbid he would ever see the Dark Lord's face again, literally, when he realized that he had created the perfect opening for Muggle-borns to finally be completely accepted.

If only he could help the process further along. Time was of the essence.

With a tired sigh, Kingsley took the floor again. "I propose restricting the use of magic by the common lay person. Ignorance of the workings of the _Apocalypto_ spell will lead to people ignoring it; and we cannot teach everybody what exactly it does and how to get around it. Especially since we don't know it yet. So, for now we have to prohibit people from using magic at all. That will be the safest way."

A loud wave of outraged "Minister" cries swept his way. Seated as he was now, on the throne elevated on a dais, in the middle of the courtroom, he stared down his legislators. Voldemort had installed the gaudy piece for his own comfort, in a sudden deranged and mistaken belief that he had won the Ministry, and Kingsley had not bothered to remove the Sticking charm cementing it to the floor. He had figured, quite rightly it seemed, that it would be good to use the pompous piece of furniture as a reminder and a warning. Thus, he parked his behind on the smooth, solid black glass surface whenever he needed to drive a point in people's minds. He was aware of how it looked, a dark skinned wizard on a pitch-black throne, and was not opposed to the effect it had.

"How exactly would we be able to restrict magic, Minister? We cannot walk around and check every single family, every day." Zador Smith was one of the colleagues for whom Kingsley sat on this ugly monstrosity. Even after appointing everyone who was left from the Order of the Phoenix to the Wizengamot, there had still been places to fill for a full court. Smith was a senior secretary in the Department of Magical Cooperation. He had to be good for something. His entire family was Hufflepuff. How much damage could they do, for crying out loud?

Arthur Weasley interceded again, as Kingsley's newly-appointed second-in-command. A Muggle-loving Senior Administrator who had been actively involved in the war and both Orders of the Phoenix and who knew from personal experience how costly war was had seemed a good idea at the time. There had been enough fight. Now it was time to fiddle and to rebuild.

"We could put the trace on magic in general. So far, it's only been put on minors, to prevent them from accidental damage while they are not fully educated. But there's nothing preventing us from putting it on _all_ magic."

It was still a good idea, it seemed. Kingsley was pleased. "Excellent idea, Arthur. Thank you."

A groan went through the crowd. And then everybody talked at once.

"WHAT, clean our own houses? _By hand_?"

"Do _you_ know the right hand movement for a sponge?"

"No, but I've seen a picture of my grandmother who had one in her hand, once. Let's see if I can find it again."

"Got a shipload of pan scrubbers, brand new, nice greenish colour, for a special price."

"Mundungus, this is hardly the time."

"This is outrageous. I will _never_…"

"… just _wiping_ it down. It's not so bad."

"How can you _possibly_ think that we … And after all this mess, we cannot even clean it up quickly and be on our way to recovery?"

"What about our patients in St. Mungo's? It will take _ages_ to heal everybody the Muggle way."

"Kingsley, there will be protests. You cannot make everybody work by _hand__," _Minerva McGonagall cautioned.

Kingsley stood up. When this didn't stop the unruly crowd from muttering and yelling amongst and over each other, he stepped onto his ugly throne and cast a  
><em>Sonorus<em> on his throat.

"Enough! Fellow wizards and witches, we have no other choice." His voice booming through the room finally drowned out the protests, albeit the silence was reluctant and tension-filled, as if the protests were barely held in check.

"We have no choice but to prohibit magic. You've seen what happens when we use magic on top of this dark spell. We will eradicate ourselves if we keep doing it. It will shred and annihilate us, the way it has done with Carlson's cows. Yes, we still have to give everybody a home and order, but we _will_ have to do it by hand. Listen, this is only a precaution until we found a way to counter the spell. _And_ it applies only to the common people."

More grousing answered him. It only stopped briefly when Harry spoke up with a frown. "Who do you mean by the common people?" Bated breaths waited for the answer.

Kingsley smiled grimly. "Everyone, except the Wizengamot members, selective teams helping with the re-building, and those who regulate compliance with the protocols for the non-use of magic. We have to put the trace on every spell, and we have to follow-up to see that people oblige, and for that we need to have an enforcement team, which will Apparate to every breach and reinforce the rule."

Hermione's deep inhale was heard despite the sigh of relief that went through the crowd.

Kingsley closed grimly. "I will make a public appearance to inform everybody of this immediate measure."

"How can we convince people that this is the only way? How can we make sure they will not become more violent in protesting what they will see as another vexation in these hard times?" Minerva McGonagall asked worriedly, over the top of the worried chattering that had taken up again.

Arthur Weasley joined his _Sonorused _voice to Kingsley. "Why, by giving them a good example."

It took the crowd two seconds to process this thought and then all eyes turned as one to the saviour on the side bench, sitting with his loyal companions.

"Harry?"

Harry Potter had sat quietly and listened to the uproar the administration was in. Thus addressed, he reluctantly asked, his low voice carrying in the abrupt silence, "What can I do?"

His best friend's father went to stand before him and said soothingly, "You don't have to do much, Harry. You've done more than enough in defeating Voldemort. But you could tell us about the time when you were growing up as a Muggle. What you had to do by hand, the cleaning, the cooking, the gardening. Tell us about burying Dobby by hand, out of respect. And when you decided not to go for greater power, the way Voldemort did. This will raise people's morale. To know that their hero has chosen, freely, not to use magic and that it is very possible to do things by hand, the way you've done it."

Harry looked disgruntled. "You want us to give up magic? Is this really the only way? And you want _me_ to promote it?"

In a warm fatherly touch, Arthur put a hand on Harry's forearm, which lay on the railing of the bench. "Not permanently, Harry. Just until we've found the way to eliminate this spell. Admittedly, it can take years, but there's no harm in working with your hands for years. However long it takes. We have no choice if we don't want to eliminate us all."

Harry nodded distractedly. "We've certainly lost enough people already. We cannot lose more because of the last of Voldemort's evil deeds." He turned to his best friends who had supported him through his entire ordeal. "Hermione? Do you see another way?"

On his far right, Hermione Granger looked just as concerned, and red-faced as if she had swallowed a huge dose of U-No-Poo, but shook her head quietly. "No, Harry. I think it's likely the only way to keep people safe."

Ron Weasley next to Harry simply shrugged his shoulders and grabbed Hermione's hand again, now that she was not ripping anybody's head off. He gave her an uncertain look. She smiled back and gave his hand a squeeze.

Thus counseled, Harry nodded again, this time with more determination.

"Atta boy, Harry." Arthur Weasley beamed and clapped Harry's shoulder.

The crowd cheered and it took a few minutes to establish enough calm again for Harry to ask for specifics.

"How are we going to do it? I cannot walk from person to person to talk to them. That would take years."

Kingsley stepped down from the throne, ever so glad to have Arthur Weasley on his side. When he picked up the thread, his deep _Sonorused_ voice left no doubt that this plan would work. He had to shout over the disquieted crowd, however, to make them understand.

"We can send out Patronus-like representations of Harry. In the Muggle world, there is a technique called holograms. We will apply the Patronus spell to Harry's representation and send a speaking picture of him around. Every day, people will gather in their homesteads and watch Harry's messages in form of this "Patrogram." Kingsley coined the new term on the spur of the moment and smiled satisfied internally. A new era required a new, fresh language; a language full of phrases that reflected progress and a new way of thinking. Out with the old, in with the new was going to be the new order of the day.

"Harry's Patrogram will be followed by instructions from Muggles and Muggle-borns, or any popular and well-known volunteers, telling them how to do their repairs by hand. This will give everyone advice on what to do and raise their spirits in a way that it is feasible, even if it is exhausting. We can also set up screens where his speech and the daily advice are repeated all day long."

When Kingsley had everybody's giddy attention through his shouting, he continued more quietly. "Arthur and I, along with a select group of assistants, will Apparate around and see how everybody is doing. We will personally visit every site of rebuilding, and St. Mungo's, and each and every family in need of support. We will encourage those who do well without magic and point out areas for improvement to those who need it. That will get the news around on the new order of the day. We have to pull together. When everybody has adjusted to the life without magic and we've either found out how the _Apocalypto_ works or have located all sites where it's been applied, we can slowly re-introduce select spells and charms without causing too much damage."

"What do we do if we need more advice than we get from those messages?"

Kingsley smiled at Zador Smith, the man with the uncanny ability to point out the fault in the system. "Why, you ask a Muggle-born who knows."

He let his words sink in for a minute, waiting for a revolted reply from Smith. It didn't come when Kingsley fixed him with a glare.

With a satisfied nod, Kingsley carried on. "Of course, we will have to establish new Offices in the Ministry. This measure has to become the law for the time being, ergo, we will need a government body to regulate it. We'll call it the Office of Manual Skills Education & Support. Everybody can turn to it to receive advice. Arthur, may I ask you to be the Department Head?"

Overwhelmed at the thought of all this extra work, "by hand," that was coming their way and barely able to go back to the business at hand in their emotional turmoil, the Wizengamot members, looking like a bunch of stupyfied pixies, turned toward Arthur Weasley. Hermione saw the thoughts behind their shocked faces one minute: not me, don't choose me, I want nothing to do with this extra work; and the relief in the next when Arthur Weasley had been called upon. She ground her teeth to keep silent. She understood the fact that nobody wanted any extra burden in times like these; but if everybody was avoiding extra work, they were not getting anywhere. Everybody had to carry an extra parcel.

After the crowd's reaction, it seemed a forgone conclusion to have Arthur Weasley take responsibility for doing things the Muggle-way. Nobody objected. When Arthur nodded his consent, the crowd visibly calmed, and Kingsley gladly moved on. He felt like a man at a children's birthday party who had to tell the crowd that the dog ate the cake. The reluctance to give up traditions, on top of dealing with the damages from the war, led to a hysteria that bubbled barely under the surface. People needed a plan; they needed structure, and fast.

"Please, establish your team as soon as possible. I will see you in my office after this session. You will also be responsible for the daily newscast conveyed in the Harry's Patrogram and advice on how to do things Muggle."

We will also need a Ministry office to monitor and assess situations and locations where the use of magic won't interact with the curse and where it might; to check the safety of people living close to it; and to enforce the proper non-use of magic. This team of compliance officers will have to have a homebase. Let's call it the office of Magic Usage Safety and Surveillance."

After a short moment of digesting the instructions forcefully presented to them by their new leader, the Wizengamot collectively nodded heads.

Kingsley gave them a short take-away message to chew over privately. "Magic is out, relying on Muggle-born knowledge is the new order of the day. Tell everybody. We have to establish this as quickly as possible. Dismissed."

Kingsley nodded grimly when he watched the few hundred wizards and witches who were responsible for the Wizarding world's future legislation file out of the courtroom. It might seem overly simple, but it was a good solution, to simply rely on somebody who knew, in this case, Muggle-borns.

If only Voldemort had thought of asking for better advice, it would have saved them a lot of trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Draco Malfoy was peeved beyond comprehension. How could he have ended up here? The scion of an ancient and noble line effectively dumped, as it were, in a common two-story house, far from civilization, with all the Death Eater children and, by the look of it, not even a luxurious home.

He wasn't naïve. He hadn't expected a palace, of course. He knew they were being punished. When the Ministry officials had come to the Manor and told him to pack a few essentials, then brought him here, he had known that something unpleasant was transpiring.

As if the new order of the day wasn't unpleasant enough already.

_He had gone with his mother to the Ministry by invitation a few days ago and had watched with growing incredulity the Minister's public announcement that all magic was henceforth prohibited. The Minister had wanted to appear kind, speaking of trust and pulling together as a populace, hence, he hadn't asked for them all to hand in their wands. How would they have gotten home? Call a cab the Muggle-way, to a house that no cab-driver was able to see?_

Right.

_Still, the Minister had cautioned them ardently not to ignore this order. _

_He had warned them all that there was a magic out there, an uncontrolled magic that would destroy all life if they continued in their old ways. In time, he had softened his thundering warning; the government would be able to assess each spell necessary for living and the situation in relation to this dooming magic. Gradually, they would re-introduce magic, testing the safety of its use. But for now, magic had to stop!_

_He had subsequently explained that henceforth the trace would be put on all magic, instead of just underage magic, yes, even the most mundane household spell, and warned them that each spell cast without permission would be investigated and possible sanctions enforced. He had then introduced a team of controllers who would do the follow-ups. Draco had just about been able to keep his face from sneering when he saw Smith's father at the head of the group. His mother had noticed his twitching facial muscles from the side and closed her hand warningly around his arm, hidden between their bodies. Draco knew Zacharias Smith of old, and his family. Heck, his whole family knew Smith's family. Fortunately, Smith had been smart enough during their Hogwarts years to stay away from Malfoy and his associates._

_The crowd's reaction echoed Draco's feelings on the matter. There had been a tumultuous uproar and only a few Stunners and silencing charms on the most outspoken and volatile listeners in the front rows had restored order. Shacklebolt had tried to soothe the short-tempered crowd with calm explanations of the help everybody could expect. He had reached for Potter, standing a little in the shadow of the tall Shacklebolt, encouraging him to step to the front of the stage. The Minister and Arthur Weasley on both sides of Draco's former classmate had told the heart-warming, to Draco it was nausea-inducing, story of Harry's life and how he had grown up without magic. Potter had looked grim and, if Draco didn't know how much Potter loved the limelight, he would have thought that the slimy saviour of the Wizarding world wasn't quite convinced of the idea his government was promoting. Shacklebolt and Weasley had driven on the point that, in the coming weeks and months, aid would be available for those trying to put their lives in order. True, hands-on help. No one would be alone with his sorrow and worries; there were two new Ministry offices, which would support people in their ordeal._

_When people muttered and murmured again, Shacklebolt had glared at the front row of his audience and pointed out that he was only the one responsible for tidying up the mess. The blame, of course, lay elsewhere. Draco remembered how hot it had become under his collar when people had turned around at the Minister's words, searching through the crowd, searching for the wizards and witches, and their relatives, who /i_were_i responsible. This had been the point, at which Draco and his mother had surreptitiously departed without a backward glance. _

_As soon as they had touched ground at Malfoy Manor, Draco had let go a barrage of curses and insults at the new legislation, and the Order, and Potter, and anyone else associated with them. Spells shooting from his wand had burned the grass and shrubbery alongside the walkway. His mother had stood by quietly watching his tantrum, before walking steadily toward their grand entrance. Narcissa had neither stopped nor encouraged her son; not until the first howler had arrived, that was. _

_Every day they received howlers for their participation in the war from people who were trying to place the blame for the misery they were living in on someone. These howlers were never able to cross the protective wards of Malfoy Manor; only through the reports of the house-elves did Draco and Narcissa know of their arrival. However, this was an official howler, with the stamp of the Ministry for Magic, Office of Magic Usage Safety and Support, and it had passed the ancient magical boundary of the Malfoy property due to its lawful authority. Draco's father had naturally altered the protective shields to recognize and allow legitimate post from the Ministry to pass through. _

_This howler addressed Draco directly. The nasally voice of Mafalda Hopkirk reiterated that all magic was prohibited and that all use was monitored by a spell-trace. Furthermore, this was to be his first, and only, warning. If he did not desist immediately, the team of professional controllers would be dispatched to his place of residence and confiscate his wand post-haste. At which point, his mother had taken Draco's wand hand and said calmly, "Stop, Draco. This is a fight you cannot win."_

_Draco had conceded. After what he'd seen during the Ministry announcement, Smith was one of the professional controllers, and judging by his demeanour, strutting about on stage, not the lowest one. Draco had absolutely no desire to meet Smith in a power position on his home turf. He quite liked him begging his father from a rather lower standpoint, on his knees ideally, thank you very much. With immense restraint, he had therefore resisted firing another Incendio, and abided his mother's wishes. _

In hindsight, Draco still grumbled at the memory of this humiliating and outrageous reprimand from the government. However, he also knew that he should consider himself lucky they hadn't thrown him into Azkaban with his father. Still, he couldn't help thinking how close the final confrontation between Potter and the Dark Lord had been; how easily the Dark Lord could have won. Then he would still sit in Malfoy Manor with these insipid idiots for servants. And more. Surely, in his triumph, the Dark Lord would have been generous, forgiving his failures and allowing him to live as he pleased? He was a Malfoy, after all.

With simmering anger, Draco thought that Potter had gotten lucky instead – as he always did. Surely, that was the whole secret about Potter. Luck. Even when they were to win it in the form of Felix Felicis he'd had luck. It could have been the only reason, truly.

With certain bitterness, Draco wondered why the luck was never with him? Why was he being herded with all the stupid Slytherin cows and other unlucky fellows to live in this substandard hovel instead of being lauded and worshipped as the royalty of wizarding society? He was a Malfoy; he was a Pureblood, why in the world was he being punished?

He was barely even of age; surely, they were not going to hold him responsible for following orders under threat to his parents' lives? No, this was the light side; they would never go so far as that. Would they?

Sure, if his side had won he would have done every imaginable thing to humiliate them – and then some. But not them. They couldn't do this. At least, he hoped they couldn't. However, he would rather eat Blast-Ended Skrewts than admit he was nervous about what this new initiative would bring.

Scandalised, he watched the people across from him. Naturally, they came with their full entourage. The irony was it was not at all dissimilar to the Dark Lord actually. Voldemort had always liked a dramatic entrance.

Now, let's see, Potter the Saint, accompanying the interim Minister Shacklebolt; Arthur "poor-blood" Weasley and his youngest in a long row of sons, insert ridiculing snort here; honestly, hadn't they heard of the pregnancy prevention charm Draco wondered. Smith was there, of course – never missed an opportunity to exert power over people if he had the chance, the worm. Further, Minerva McGonagall, the mother hen, always caring for students - Draco briefly remembered her upset over Moody's treatment of him. Next to her was an old man, who looked a lot like Dumbledore, especially the sharp blue eyes and had to be his brother Aberforth; then, a small and wiry, lively wizard with his hat askew; a middle aged witch with soft, long brown hair; three ancient members of the Wizengamot, Griselda Marchbanks, Quirinius Tofty, and Dydimus Frobisher; last, and absolutely least, Mudblood Granger. If only Severus had survived, they would have brought a little sense with them, at least.

As they were herded into what would become their large common room, not unlike the dorms at Hogwarts, Draco came to stand next to Pansy, eyeing the opposing side one by one. A snide remark pulled Draco out of his quiet contemplations.

"May I show them now where the brooms and wipes are, Minister?" Zador Smith's voice cut through the air as soon as the mass of young adults came to a halt. Draco shot a sharp, sideways glance at the offender, but he didn't need to bother. The collective wince that passed through the crowd of Ministry representatives was palpable. Draco noted smugly that Smith was not on even ground with the good side either, eager as he was to appear so. Granger on the other hand looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there. Draco watched her massage her temples with both hands and felt an unusual twitch of connection to the witch. He, also, would rather not be there; even if that was the only thing they had in common.

Hermione felt a headache coming on, as a twitch of anger leapt up from her stomach. Could one do more damage with a single sentence, she pondered. Surely, Voldemort would have given Smith a medal for the pure destructive power of just opening his mouth. It didn't help that she felt somebody staring at her, but she kept her eyes low and her mouth shut to minimize her involvement. Surely, the shorter this confrontation, the better, she thought.

"I'll take it from here, Smith," Kingsley said in grim reply, though it made little difference.

The severity of the situation demanded that Kingsley, as the Minister, appear personally as a sign of good faith. They wanted to befriend these young adults, make them part of their community. Showing them some respect by a personal appearance of the Minister was the least they could do.

The only problem was that it didn't go as planned. Of course, many if not all of them had seen the Minister personally before, if not this version then one of the previous ones – their parents had been influential enough. Thus, they took it as the utmost condescension that he showed up now, before they were being locked away.

Cuttingly cold was the attitude of those young adults, twenty-two young wizards and witches, as they unconsciously closed ranks against the perceived threat of Kingsley and his consort. More from habit than design, Draco Malfoy happened to stand at the apex of the line, flanked by Parkinson, Nott, Zabini and Goyle, clearly leading the group, as expected. However, a few younger ones hid behind the older and taller ones, seemingly seeking the protection of their more experienced brethren. They hadn't perpetrated any crimes, and it was clearly written in their faces that they weren't quite sure what charge was brought against them.

Well, Kingsley thought, you'll soon find out. Not willing to give these children any more leniency when faced with their resistance, he spoke in his calm, commandeering voice.

Listening to the Minister's address, Hermione used the opportunity to watch her former schoolmates. Behind their haughty, closed-off expressions, she saw what she recognized as the uprooted uncertainty she had felt when she started Hogwarts. She remembered this feeling well because it had followed her through the halls of Hogwarts until Harry and Ron had saved her from the troll.

They were quite right to be uncertain, these young adults, Hermione thought. Their circumstances were clearly different from her need for education at age 11, and, other than the apparent crime of belonging, by kith or kin, to the side that had lost the recent war; there was no reason for them to be there. Looking at this group, barely more than children, Hermione felt a sting of doubt that separating these children from their parents made any sense.

"We've explained to you what you can expect for the next few months, or years, although we dearly hope that it won't take quite that long. As a sort of house arrest due to your young age, you will live here with your fellows, other young adults who are by family connected to Voldemort's supporters. Studies, if you need to finish your education, will be done here. There will be tutors coming who will teach you and other supervisors to aid with any difficulties in adjusting to your new way of living.

You have likely heard the dire situation we are in. Thanks to the little 'gift' Voldemort -" Everybody flinched, and Harry chuckled briefly. Hermione sighed at the thought of how far they still had to go if people hadn't yet accepted speaking, or hearing, Voldemort's name or the fact that he was dead and gone. Kingsley continued without pause, "- and his followers left us, we cannot use magic as we are accustomed to if we do not want to condemn ourselves to vanishing into the ether."

"Prove it," came a daring reply from the crowd. Kingsley smiled grimly.

"Mr. Malfoy, I have been elected the Minister for Magic because I am able to govern a large group of people. That requires that I make decisions without having to prove they are necessary. Your fellow community members elected me." Malfoy's face showed his dismay at the spot-on reply; satisfied, Kingsley continued. "It may not suit you, but they did. There have been enough people from the administration present to see what happens if we apply magic anywhere near the Apocalypto spell. Fortunately, the only victims so far were cattle and not humans. There's not even enough meat left to roll a meatball. I will not have anyone, witch or wizard, child, pet or even Muggle subjected to the same under my watch."

Kingsley met Draco's angry glare with one of determination. The old Wizengamot members muttered supportively. Draco ended the uphill battle by looking away first. He felt a bit like a Grindylow out of water, wrong-footed against what appeared a closed government line, and it didn't sit well with him. After all, his father had always achieved so much because he knew how to have the government on his side. Draco's anger flared again when he realized that he was not quite in the same position as his father had been. Rather to the contrary. Again with the rotten luck.

As a small consolation, he couldn't help feeling gratified that the Dark Lord hadn't gone without a fight and that, even posthumously, he was still putting up a struggle.

"So, the Dark Lord left a piece of himself behind, is that what you're saying … Minister?" he said sarcastically.

Kingsley eyed him like an unpleasant insect. "Luckily, no. Voldemort is gone for good and we will find out how to undo this spell of his. Until then, however, we will have to proceed with caution and resist using magic. Since we don't exactly know where they have used this spell, it serves better to be overly cautious than not cautious enough. Your common house here is safe enough to allow for a few household spells, without crumbling to pieces, but it would be best for you to learn how to take care of yourselves entirely without magic. This will be one of the purposes of your stay. We want to see you acquaint yourself with the way Muggles do things and to gain some perspective."

He turned back to address all of his listeners.

"You will each have your own room, which will be locked for the night at 8 pm and re-opened at 6:30 every morning. This is for your own protection. We will not condone anything untoward, be it fighting, bullying, or other activities. You are mostly adults; please behave that way, if you do not want to be stripped of privileges." A collective scoff answered him. Thinking of privileges was the last thing anyone was doing in the current situation. They were being submitted to circumstances little better than outright imprisonment. Kingsley ignored their protest and kept his face straight.

"A supervisor will ensure that you have everything necessary to feel comfortable enough. This is a temporary measure for you. We would like to see you becoming citizens of our society we can trust again. You will understand, of course, that given your family history, we are unable to do so at the moment. Every day, you will take part in the cleaning and reparations of the damages done in the recent war against Voldemort." Everybody flinched again. Harry rolled his eyes and grimaced. Kingsley continued without pause.

"You will be sent with a government representative who will report on your behaviour. They consist of your former classmates and other volunteers, who are helping with the clean-up voluntarily. We will call them your partners. I strongly advise you not to consider, let alone do anything untoward to your assigned partner. Even though you will go out without your wand, should you be foolish enough to even attempt attacking your partner, your house arrest will be turned into a considerable stay in Azkaban quicker than you can blink." Drawn to his full height, his features arranged in a stern expression, he looked striking. Kingsley was a commandeering presence at the best of times, but utterly lacking a typical politician's slick veneer of indifference. If he was exasperated, you knew it, just as you knew when he was pleased. That easy readability made him seem all the more formidable when he assumed the bearing of his official role.

"Your partners have been selected for you. They will come by tomorrow to pick you up and bring you to places where your help is most urgently needed. Everybody's help is needed and everyone's work holds value in these times. You and your partners will do the same work, side by side. In this undertaking, we are all equal and there is much we can learn from each other. At the end of each day, you will be brought back here where you can fix your meals and clean and mend your clothes with help from your supervisor before you are secured for the night."

He gave a stern look to each of them in turn. "Your partners will report to me and my advisor. Arthur Weasley is my second-in-command and oversees this entire enterprise. He does have your well-being in mind. If we had gone with the opinion of most people in this country, you would have all joined your parents in jail. However, we don't want you to continue thinking in black and white like that. We know that you didn't really do anything to help Voldemort come to power, except abiding by your parents' indoctrination, and we cannot fully blame you for your lack of choices. Therefore, we are giving you the chance to prove that we can trust you. Do not disappoint us by doing anything foolish and do not forfeit your chance to prove yourself to us. If you are not stupid, show us. We will be watching you."

After another stern look at the crowd in front of him, Kingsley added, "Any questions?"

Thus encouraged, a timid looking girl asked, "You take our wands?"

The Minister of Magic looked grim. "You heard what I said about the indiscriminate use of magic close to the Apocalypto curse and learning not to use magic?"

Above the incredulous muttering and grumbling one question was heard. "What if we have to go to the toilet at night?" a girl seeming close to tears asked tentatively from the back.

Harry answered with a sneer. "Then you will use this fabulous Muggle invention called 'toilet paper' instead of a Scourgify charm. Try it, it's fabulously soft. We've supplied each of you with enough rolls to last you a few weeks. Make sure you wash your hands afterward, however. "

Arthur Weasley supported him in a more fatherly fashion. "You will find that we've supplied you with everything for your comfort. Your respective supervisor will help you find what you need without using magic."

Kingsley's voice thundered over Arthur's warmth. "We will read you the list of your partners, now. They will pick you up tomorrow morning and take and guide you to your first assignments."

"Pansy Parkinson – Ronald Weasley." Pansy inhaled sharply, before holding her breath. The entire room fell silent until the next pair was read, caught in the tension of unexpressed emotions where revolt would usually have been.

"Blaise Zabini – Dean Thomas." Zabini sought eye contact with his former classmate and gave a short nod. Dean gave him a small smile.

"Ursula Penkridge – Luna Lovegood." One of the timid looking girls in the back poked her head up for a brief second, and then hid again just as quickly.

"Tracey Davis - Hannah Abbott"

"Gregory Goyle - Neville Longbottom"

"Grogan Stump – Seamus Finnigan"

"Declan Hayworth – Percy Weasley"

"Darius Vaisey – Zacharias Smith."

"Harrick Newbourne – Michael Corner."

"Theodore Nott - George Weasley"

"Orla Quirke – Susan Bones"

"Miles Harper – Katie Bell"

One by one, pairs of names were read, until all, but one, were matched.

"What about Draco?" Pansy Parkinson asked into the silence that followed the expectation of the last pair of names. Draco used every ounce of his Malfoy discipline to appear as though none of this concerned him. It didn't, did it? For the uneducated onlooker, he looked utterly disinterested.

Kingsley made his none-of-your-concern face. "We will tell him tomorrow." The rest of the team next to the Minister looked a little disconcerted and restless.

Draco felt the same way. Again, he would never admit it, but to be the only one not paired made him feel incredibly isolated. He couldn't show it, of course. Looking for a weak point in the other party's line, Malfoy caught Hermione's restless gaze and smirked provocatively, a motion that didn't reach his eyes. Hermione felt a shiver going down her spine at the utmost loathing she saw there; the bite of a young man whose future had been destroyed for the time being. She tried to tell herself that it was his own fault and made a face back at him, before looking away haughtily. When Draco chuckled darkly, however, she felt the same humourless outrage churning in her and she almost joined him just to let it out. She felt a little nauseated over the absurdity that she and Draco Malfoy could ever feel the same thing at the same time. Preposterous.

"Well, if you have no further questions, we'll give you time to settle in. You will find the larder well stocked, but you have to prepare your own food; as well as cleaning and caring for your clothing, linens, personal hygiene, et cetera. No House-elves allowed. Your supervisors will demonstrate until you've learned it. Don't even think about manipulating your supervisors by pretending you are incapable of mastering these tasks. We know what you i _are_ /i capable of accomplishing should you put your minds to it. Do not think you can trick us. Every try will work against you. You're not at Hogwarts anymore. This is not a detention of sorts where you can dawdle along, feigning incompetence or disinterest, until your time is up. We want to see you thrive, to become worthy citizens of our community who can contribute to the common welfare, not paying through the nose to get your way or waiting out your time. i _You_ /i have to show i _us_ /i that you can.

You have an hour to settle in, and then Headmistress McGonagall and Mr. Diggle, your supervisors for today, will collect your wands and lock you into your respective rooms until tomorrow morning. You will find bathrooms adjacent to your rooms and you can stock up on snacks so you won't go hungry at night, but other than that you won't have any access to the rest of the house or any contact with your house mates.

When your supervisor wakes you at 6:30 tomorrow morning, do get up and prepare yourself for a day of work. We will not tolerate tardiness and disrespect to your partner.

Show us what you can do and that we can trust you and we will release you back to your life. Remember, even a failed attack on your partner or supervisor, or anyone living here with you, will earn you a prison sentence. We will assess you every few weeks, based on the reports of your partners. As soon as we are satisfied, you can go. Until then, take this time and learn as much as you can about how to be an independent individual willing and able to serve the common purpose. Good evening."

With those final words, Kingsley gave a curt nod to the crowd of young wizards and witches and walked out. Harry, following right after the Minister, turned to cast a final appraising gaze over his former school mates, while Hermione left without looking back at all, pulling arms tight around her midsection and hunching her shoulders up to ward off her shivers. She just couldn't stand the sight of those scared and scorned children torn away from everything they'd ever known, deposited like refugees in an unfamiliar place to bear the weight of rebuilding their lives amongst the uncertainty of this new world. Ron, on the other hand, smirked in the direction of Malfoy and Pansy, basking in satisfaction at how the tables had turned, until Arthur took his arm and pulled him away with a mildly admonishing headshake.

Minerva McGonagall stayed behind; next to her was the small, wiry wizard with the hat askew who seemed unable to stand still. Her gaze was as unyielding as it had been at Hogwarts, but she had grown older, Draco noted. He filed it away in his mental storage of material to be used as leverage that even McGonagall had grown weaker from the war.

Her severe tone refuted her appearance. "Welcome to your new house, the Detainee Education Niche. This will be your home for the coming months. How long exactly it will stay your home will depend on you and your behaviour alone. You heard the Minister: the faster you show us you appreciate your fellow wizards and witches, the faster we can release you.

Until then, we will help you to become as comfortable as possible under the circumstances in this house. This is not a prison; however, we have to have your protection and re-education in mind.

We will give you an hour to settle in. During this time, unpack your necessities and please come to Mr. Diggle or myself with any questions you have regarding tasks you need to complete without magic. You may always make the choice to partake of a cold supper, especially in this hot weather; however, it is not impossible to light a fire without a spell. We will be happy to demonstrate this. Now, move along."

Having dismissed them, she left the common room with Deadalus Diggle trailing behind, making their way toward a supervisors' room near the entrance of the house. The small wizard turned around with a last encouraging smile to the small crowd of young people and closed the door behind him.

As soon as the door shut with a click, Pansy hissed, "Why couldn't they find anybody for you, Draco?"

Draco Malfoy, his eyes still firmly fixed on the door, replied grimly, "Because I'm too important. They don't want to screw with me the same way as they'll do with you. Because they know they'll have another Dark Lord on their hands, with my family's influence and money and magical power. Partners, my foot. These "partners" have been selected on their ability to "handle" us."

A bark of laughter close to the window was the answer, and everybody turned at the unexpected noise. Blaise Zabini stood with his arms folded and a challenging expression on his face.

"Got a problem, Zabini?" Draco pressed out with barely restrained anger.

Blaise chuckled in response. "Not I, Malfoy. But if you think that you are still that important to them, you better think again."

Draco took up the challenge without a blink. "Is that so? Then how do you explain our being sequestered here if we are not important to them? Why confiscate our wands and trap us here, unless it's because they are afraid that we will rise against them as truly loyal servants of our Dark Lord, joining the others in carrying out his will even after his demise?"

Zabini shook his head. "He was never i _my _/i Dark Lord. So, for one, I wonder what I'm doing here aside from being a scapegoat for the likes of you, Malfoy. Before I elaborate on why i _you_ /i, personally, haven't been running around the country and destroying as much as you can, like those i _loyal_ /i idiots wreaking magical chaos and leaving us with utter bedlam, let me state quite clearly that I have no, nor will I ever have, any intention of reliving any of these completely barmy times we witnessed under You-Know-Who. I couldn't care less about Muggles and Muggle-borns, and I leave them alone if they leave me alone."

He had moved closer while speaking and was now standing face to face with Malfoy, who was a few inches shorter than Zabini. "Unfortunately, I failed to adequately distance myself from you while in school, and now I'm stuck with the stigma of being a Slytherin and in league with the likes of you. I have no idea what the next few weeks will hold for us, but I can tell you one thing for certain, Malfoy: partner or handler, I'll do the work that needs to be done and I'll be out of here in no time, unless they try to make me clean their bogs, which I will outright refuse on grounds of being simply humiliating. You will i _not _/i stand in my way with your antiquated and, frankly, ridiculous notions of pureblood supremacy."

"Take it easy, Zabini." Before Draco could say a word in response, Theo Nott had come up from behind Blaise and put a calming hand on his shoulder. Pansy had made her way halfway in front of Draco, as if to shield him, and Goyle stood behind Malfoy's right shoulder, where his place had always been, and cracked his knuckles. "Draco's not that keen on pureblood supremacy."

"Oh, I'm not, am I, Nott?" Draco jeered. "Don't embarrass yourself by trying to make anyone believe that you could i _possibly _/i know what I think." Infuriated by the whole situation and the fact that, somehow, he had been singled out as the villain amongst all those assembled here, Draco lashed out against everything and everyone. "Pansy, get away from me. Do you really think I need your protection? Go; coddle some of those whimpering geese over there." He indicated the sofa where Ursula Penkridge and Heather Thatcham, the two girls who had dared to ask questions before, sat crying.

"Zabini, don't you see what they are doing, these blood traitors? They are putting us together and expecting us to turn on each other. Isn't that the Slytherin way, after all? Every man out for his own, using any means he can to get to the top."

"I'm not a Slytherin," 16-year-old Grogan Stump remarked. He was quickly silenced with a dark look from the young men facing off.

"Don't you see?" Draco urged on. "That is just like them, these Muggle lovers, arresting us and letting these Mudbloods rule over us just so they can convince themselves that their dirty blood doesn't make them inferior. It's outrageous. Oh, why couldn't the Dark Lord have been less naïve? What a stupid mistake to make, not to know how exactly the Elder Wand changed allegiance."

"Come on, Draco. You couldn't have known about the Elder Wand," Nott supplied snappishly, miffed by Draco's rebuke.

Draco sneered. "Don't be daft, Nott. Of course, I knew about the Elder Wand; every pureblood worthy of magic knows about the Elder Wand. He never asked me about the bloody thing, and, if you knew anything about the Dark Lord, you would know that you do not presume to insult his intelligence by offering information he has not asked for. Not if you value your sanity."

Zabini turned away with a huff, shaking Nott's hand off in the process. "I don't care, Malfoy, how important you think you were to You-Know-Who. I don't care about your stupid Mark. None of it matters now anyway. Just don't get in my way. I want to get on with my life."

Theo gave Draco a last exasperated look and turned away as well, ambling toward some of the younger boys, Declan Hayworth and Miles Harper, who sat by the other window looking rather intimidated.

Pansy scowled from where she sat on the sofa with the frightened girls, and Goyle looked so confused that Draco felt his temper swell again. What was wrong with all of them? Nothing had changed and they still had a common enemy: Potter and his side.

"Are you going to let them do this to you without as much as a smidgen of protest, mates? Where is your pride? Your sense of duty? Are you really going to go blithely along, allowing them to herd you about like sheep?"

His fellow housemates were saved from answering when Minerva McGonagall came in at this moment to shepherd them into their respective rooms. "Girls, follow me, please, up to the second floor. The boys will stay on this level and follow Mr. Diggle to their respective rooms. Let's get you settled for the night. I'm sure there are still some questions."

Her expression left no room for discussion. Pansy took Ursula and Heather by the hand and, following behind her former Deputy Headmistress, led them up the stairs with a last disgruntled look at Draco. One by one, they filed out, each sparing him a glance, until Draco was the only person left, alone in the room. With a muttered oath, he grabbed a few snacks from the kitchen and went to the back of the house where the boys' rooms were located.

Draco listened with half an ear, as the over-eager Mr. Diggle explained the rules and highlighted things they would do the Muggle way - like regular showers; and towels with hooks on the wall to hang them to dry; and heating systems; and the way you could turn down your bed by simply lifting the bed sheet and comforter and pulling them. Draco put his travel bag on the desk in the room, enlarged it, and went to sit on his simple bed, not sparing his sparse accommodation a glance. There wasn't much to see. His bed wasn't even a four-poster; there was not enough space in his room. Everything was clinically white, not a splotch of colour.

Before Draco could make any comparisons with what he had seen of Azkaban the one time he had been allowed visitation to tell his father, "Good-bye," Mr. Diggle appeared in the doorway, asking in his chipper voice, "Everything alright, Mr. Malfoy? Do you have everything you need for the night? A snack, your essentials?"

Draco didn't even deign to make eye contact or a give verbal reply; he simply nodded without looking up.

"Well, then, give me your wand, please."

Draco looked at the Alder wand in his hands. It was still new for him and he hadn't quite adjusted to its new powers yet, which was one of the reasons he hadn't made his alliance known with the Death Eaters at large. His Hawthorne wand had never returned to him and, while he had been able to get another one, their family influence was so diminished that he had to make do with what was available. And that wasn't much. Ollivander was still weak after his time in captivity at Malfoy Manor, and, while his not inconsiderable stock of wands, or what was left of it, had been returned to him, he had been less than enthusiastic at the prospect of working for the family that had imprisoned him. Narcissa Malfoy had paid an exorbitant amount to replace Draco's wand.

Stumbling upon the wand of Draco's great-great-grandfather Septus Septimius Malfoy when sifting through the destruction of the Manor, left by pillagers in the wake of the Final Battle, she had pleaded with Ollivander to merely cleanse and rebalance the dragon heartstring core of the wand, thus, making it usable for her only son. Ollivander hadn't been able to withstand a mother's desperation.

His great-great-grandfather had been rather incongruous with the natures and proclivities of his lineage and had not contributed much good to the family's standing, despite his influence as the head of Minister Unctuous Osbert's Privy Council and his perceived role as the i _de facto /i_leader of the government. Septus, it was told, only to other Malfoys safe within the Manor walls, was a bit of an anomaly among Malfoys; prone to corruption, yes, just as his father had taught him, but entirely unwilling to embrace the Dark Arts to achieve his ends; thus, rendering him unable to fully master the Malfoy wand he had received from his father. Instead, the parasitic wand, tainted by generations of Dark Magic, slowly diminished his magic and his mind. Therefore, at the height of his success as the Minister's puppeteer, the family found it prudent to remove Septus from public machinations.

To explain Septus' disappearance from the public eye at the prime of his life, aged 55, in 1798, the family concocted a story of a malicious assassination attempt on the Minister late at night, when the Minister and his trusted advisor were alone in the Minister's private office. Septus had narrowly averted the Minister's demise by heroically throwing himself in the path of the oncoming spell. Draco shook his head at the stupidity of people believing anything if you just made it sound heroic enough. As if any Malfoy would ever save anyone but himself. It would have been more plausible if Septus Malfoy had used the Minister as a shield from the attacker.

The way the story continued, Septus was, allegedly, hit with a modified, therefore incurable, Confundus, and the Malfoy family had enough blackmail information on Osbert to ensure his compliance with this public story. Septus survived another 5 years within the Manor walls, never seeing the outside again.

The wand passed to Septus' son, Lucien, who quickly disbanded with the Malfoy tradition of taking up the father's wand, banished it the dark recesses of the attic, and established the rule of choosing one's own wand henceforth. Possessing a sturdy Ebony wand with Basilisk skin core, 12 and a half inches, he rebuilt the Malfoy political influence, established the Malfoy industrial empire, and restored the association of the family with cunning, malice, and the Dark Arts. Lucien eventually retired to the French countryside leaving the Malfoy business and the wand to his son Abraxas. Abraxas Malfoy, like his father before him and his son, Lucius, after him, continued to increase the Malfoy fortune with a wand of his choosing. Abraxas used his dominating, rigid Black Walnut wand, 11 and ¾ inches, with an Acromantula web core (Publicly believed to be the heartstring of a rare Siberian Silversnout, explaining the rather grey colouring of the core, should anyone bother to look), in tandem with considerable cleverness and ruthlessness, to great effect, before succumbing to a particularly virulent case of dragon pox at the age of 98.

His wand was added to the extensive collection of Malfoy family wands that were stored in a chest at the Manor and protected by numerous wards and enchantments. These wands were made available for family use, should it become necessary to take up a new wand as had been the case for Lucius, following the first war. (After all, how would you claim innocence of having cast Avada Kedavra curses when your wand clearly indicates that it has been doing exactly that and to whom?)

It may have been traditional, an honour even, to adopt one of the heirloom wands out of necessity; however, in light of the history of the wand that was, until recently, believed lost or destroyed, and the family's recent fall from grace, Draco had been justifiably unenthusiastic about taking the inflexible and, at 13 inches, rather long Alder wand. Further increasing his reluctance to embrace the wand was a long-standing family belief that a sliver of Chimera scale comprised the heart of the core and that the volatile wand's influence had driven Septus into an early grave.

However, the Alder wand had chosen Draco after its reconstruction with an expectant shiver and a homely wave of warmth spreading up Draco's arm when he first held it, and now he felt a sting that he had to part with it. He gave it one gentle stroke, resulting in a spark of white stars shooting from it, before he handed it to Mr Diggle, again without looking at him.

Draco, therefore, didn't see the understanding smile on Diggle's face, and he was impervious to his firm, yet kind and somewhat sad tone of voice when Diggle said, "I'll lock you in. We'll see you in the morning. Rest well, there will be lots of work to do," before he closed the door.

When his door fell shut with a final thud and click, Draco couldn't resist staring at the inside of it. It was also white, a smooth surface with no blemishes, nothing to keep your glance from gliding off like butter in the sun.

Paired with the woeful coo of a dove somewhere out in the moors that surrounded the house, Draco felt this oppressive whiteness grow until it could swallow him whole. He shook his head to rid himself of the mental intrusion.

Before he could drive himself mad staring at this overwhelming whiteness, Draco got up to sort his stuff into the bathroom. In his small stall, which contained a shower, a sink, and a toilet with a small window above it, he finally felt alone, but not alone enough. Constant paranoia while living under the Dark Lord's rule, and at times with him and his court in the Manor, led Draco to feel as though he could never, ever let his guard down.

He couldn't sense any magic, and having grown up in a magical home and being a magical being used to feeling the thrum of magic in the air around him and in his blood, the absence of that energy made him decidedly unsettled, but he wouldn't trust Potter and Granger any more than he would use a wand with Kelpie hair for a core to not install any Muggle technology to spy on the inmates. He certainly wouldn't put it past them. There, he said it, they were inmates, weren't they? Criminals in the eyes of the victors and their government.

Even while he believed that he might be truly alone for the first time in years, where not even House-elves could get to him- the Ministry had most certainly put a guard in place that prevented even House-elf Apparation around the house- he still took care to make it appear that he dropped his soap and bumped his head when coming up, as an excuse for his cry of pain when he punched the wall under the sink in anger.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he let out a string of curses that would have his mother washing his mouth with soap, even at his age. He hit the basin with his fist, cursing it loudly, and then breathed hard, to breathe away the pain that threatened to chase tears in his eyes, the buggers. Malfoys don't cry, not really. Right?

Right.

Not in open daylight at least.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

"What's the problem with Malfoy?"

Ron played idly with Hermione's hand, threading their fingers together and taking them apart again, while posing the question openly to the room. His father answered. "Well, some people, like Susan Bones, have explicitly said they would take anybody but Draco Malfoy, and others are simply not a good match. We have to be very deliberate where he is concerned. He's the most influential of them all, but also the most sensitive case. He's been through a lot, as I'm sure you know, Ron."

Ron's grip on Hermione's hand contracted suddenly. "Like us, you mean?" he said with a grimace.

Hermione squeezed back, and then extracted her hand before Ron squashed it in annoyance. She offered a wan smile, hoping Ron wouldn't feel rebuked or as though she didn't want to hold his hand. She did. She wanted all of him - wanted to laugh and to cuddle with him, to feel his flesh and strength, to seek his warmth and comfort and oblivion. All of which was in short supply these days, not only from Ron, and not only for her, but from everybody and everywhere.

She didn't like to be reminded of everything _they _had experienced. They had _all _been through a lot, but compared to the others - aside from Harry, who had been willing to suffer the ultimate sacrifice - Hermione felt her straw had been particularly short. That was a road best not travelled in present company, though. Whenever she thought about, or was reminded of, her brief "stay" at Malfoy Manor, Hermione needed to be very much alone. Holding yourself together when all you want is to cry like a baby took so much effort, Hermione was uncertain how much longer she would have the strength for it.

Luckily, the focus was not on her at the moment. Arthur Weasley squeezed the shoulder of his youngest son who was, by now, a head taller. "With the difference that you were prepared for what you were about to do, yes." Hermione was too tired and too occupied with quelling the onset of tears to rectify Arthur's mistaken assumption.

"Well, if nobody wants to take on Malfoy, I guess I have to, don't I?" Harry grumbled.

"No, Harry." Kingsley intervened, stretching out in his Ministerial chair behind his desk. They had returned to his office after the introductions at the "den". The issue with Malfoy needed further discussion, and quickly. The people present were the only ones Kingsley trusted with this, apart from Minerva, who was busy with the Death Eater offspring this evening.

"You are needed as the saviour who raises the spirit. You have to go from place to place and raise morale. We will send the holograms to most places, and we'll post billboards of you as well, but you have to appear in person, too. If you go to a different place every day, people will know that you are making your rounds and that you will eventually get to them. They have to believe that they are important enough to be spoken to by you. You have to tell them about your own struggles and that you overcame them through sacrifice, hard work, and the support of your friends. Emphasize your parents, your upbringing – all the losses and disadvantages you faced. You have to put their suffering into perspective and show them that it will get better, now that Voldemort is gone."

"I still don't see how it will help when I tell everybody about my aunt and uncle," Harry muttered under his breath.

Arthur gave him an encouraging smile. "Not your aunt and uncle in particular, Harry. We don't want to raise any Muggle hate because your relatives were, or rather, are less than understanding of our world. Tell everybody about the way you grew up and the way things can be done without magic. Ekel-, elte-" Arthur Weasley huffed and then gave it a last try. "_Elec_tricity is a fascinating thing, and the ways Muggles have found to accommodate nature to their needs are ingenious. We have to use this."

"Alright." Harry agreed with a sigh. "Can I take Ginny with me?"

Arthur hesitated for a moment. "Let me think about it, Harry."

"Okay." Harry consented with a nod, aware that Ginny would likely be needed to take care of her mother and, during these tumultuous times, that Arthur was reluctant to allow Ginny too far from the safety of home. "Who will take Malfoy then?"

Ron straightened up, grumbling. "Well, if Harry can't take him, I guess _I_ have to."

It only took a split-second for everyone to react. Where Harry, Arthur and Kingsley winced and grimaced, Hermione voiced her objections, albeit cautiously. "Ron, that's a recipe for disaster. We may as well put Malfoy into Azkaban right away because he will never work with you on anything," she said quietly.

"Oh, yeah? Well, perhaps if I'm making the sacrifice to see his ugly mug every day next to me, he can make one, too, don't you think?" Ron bit back, clearly miffed.

Hermione tried to reason with him. "He wouldn't, Ron, and you know it. He feels wronged. His father was very close to Voldemort, he feels entitled to something better. I'm not saying he's right in this thinking," she continued quickly when Ron took a deep breath and his face became visibly redder, "but you know how he is. He thinks he's the highest-ranking of them all, and therefore, he has the most to lose when losing face. He will fight tooth and nail to be able to keep his standard. And he's been on the _inside__. _He knows how arbitrary some of Voldemort's rules and preferences were. If he sees the same thing from us, if we pull ranks, he will openly revolt."

Hermione exhaled forcefully. The impact of what they were about to do rested heavily on her shoulders, even if she wasn't carrying the responsibility. The entire undertaking of separating the Death Eater offspring from society for re-education could go so wrong, she felt sick thinking about it. Ron didn't like her defence of Malfoy one bit, she saw in his face, but she had to make him see their responsibility as handlers -even if it drove a wedge between them.

"Additionally, Draco doesn't see that _he_ did anything wrong. He feels entitled to special treatment. Now, he gets no respite from us. He will revolt, and you and he are volatile at the best of times. You would snap at the slightest provocation, you know that, too. It would never work," she finished with a pleading glance at Ron's angry face.

Harry agreed, albeit reluctantly. "Ron, I hate to say this, but Hermione's right. You and Malfoy _are_ a disaster waiting to happen.

Arthur added with a sigh, "I'm sorry to say, I've done my share of disliking the Malfoys. Lucius and I have never been on friendly terms, even before their involvement in the first war, and Ron, you've likely acquired some of my animosity along with your own experiences. Even as a mature adult, cooperating with Lucius would never work for me, and you and Draco would be an explosive combination in the same way."

"Who then? Who could take on Malfoy, control him, but not exploit him?" Kingsley asked impatiently. It was getting late, and tomorrow was going to be another full day.

Silence was his only reply, until …

"Ah well," Mr Weasley said. "I may as well take two. Perhaps I can undo some of the damage I've done with my attitude toward the Malfoys." He was clearly not happy about this, but there weren't many other options left.

Kingsley intervened harshly. "No, Arthur, I need you here. Ms Parkinson in your home is plenty, helping Molly. You cannot stay home and watch two compulsively reluctant young wizards and witches. Ron cannot do it, as we just decided, and Molly can't take that."

Arthur shook his head sadly. "She would, but I don't think she should."

All the while, a silent conversation between Harry and Hermione had taken place. Upon a piercing glare from Harry, Hermione shook her head angrily. When Harry tilted his head sceptically, Hermione glared back. When Harry looked imploringly, Hermione finally threw her head back in anger.

"Harry, you can't be serious," she exploded. "I'm the 'Mudblood', the insufferable know-it-all, the Muggle-born. As far as he is concerned, I know nothing about magical upbringing because I have not been there. He would never take as much as a friendly advice from me, let alone an order to dirty his hands. I would be of much better use to help with restoration projects. I could help with the Apocalypto research, work out messages-"

"But that's just it, Hermione," Kingsley interrupted her rant with sudden excitement. "Malfoy in particular needs to be put in his place, to be shown that he's not the pinnacle of creation anymore. He needs to learn that you, or anyone born outside of a pureblood union, are _not_ beneath him. Who better to show him than you? And you are not just any Muggle-born. You are our celebrity Muggle-born, our heroine. He may as well think he gets special treatment because he is assigned to our heroine."

"Kingsley," Hermione started to protest, pulling a tired grimace. Hadn't she just tried to explain the intricate psychological effects their little re-education game would have on their den-people? Being Hermione Granger, of course, she understood the intricacies, but she didn't want to be the one upholding them. Did they have any idea how difficult it would be to move Malfoy to do any kind of dirty work? How delicate the balance was going to be? How tired she was already and made even more so when she thought about extra responsibility?

No, they didn't know. Because she hadn't told them. They still saw her as their stellar friend and the brilliant Muggle-born witch who helped bring Voldemort down. They didn't know that she would leave everything behind in a blink of an eye if she could make a proper decision about where to go and how to abandon her responsibilities. She just couldn't rid herself of her duty to the world that gave her an identity. Hermione rubbed her eyebrows in fatigue.

"No, you know what, Hermione, that might really be a good idea," Harry intervened with an air of urgency, taking her cold hand into his large warm one. "You were the only one of us who didn't rise to his taunts. You _could_ manage him, and if he gives you trouble, you call on me for help. Give him a warning early on that he only has one shot. If he blows it, he goes to Azkaban, which he deserves anyway."

Hermione saw her hopes of getting out of the situation without looking suspicious and raising more questions dashed by her best friend. She _was_ known for taking on inhuman loads. Ron's anger notwithstanding, if even Harry thought it was a good idea…

"Hermione," Arthur started in as well, putting a supportive hand on her shoulder. "It may not be such a bad idea. The partnerships don't have to be forever. I'll tell you what: let's start out like this, give him fair warning and, when you see he's not complying, come to me, and we'll figure something else out. For now, time is at a premium. He has to be picked up like everybody else tomorrow morning, and I doubt we can find another proper partner for Malfoy tonight. What do you say, hm?"

Hermione looked into Arthur Weasleys clear blue eyes; the same eyes as Ron's, only with more fatherly warmth. She hadn't seen her parents in so long, and since the Final Battle, every waking minute had been spent plugging up one hole in the fabric of living or another. There hadn't been time to bring her parents back, but just now she wished there had been. She longed for her father's embrace and his reassurance that she was his girl and a jolly good one at that. She missed her mother's loving smile. All Hermione wanted in this moment was to crawl into a hot bath, wash off the grime that was war, and then crawl into bed and sleep for an indeterminate amount of time. Until the fog over her brain lifted. Until the fatigue was healed and she felt warm again.

Until then, what was one more burden?

"Alright," she said quietly. "I'll do it."

There comes a point when defending your refusal becomes more cumbersome than just taking on more work. Even though she knew she would regret this extra burden, she was too tired to fight back against the people she knew and loved. Her usually sharp mind feeling like cotton wool, Hermione knew what she wanted, but she had to get home for it.

"I'm going home. See you tomorrow."

Harry stepped up to her and embraced her. "Goodnight, Hermione. Sleep well. We'll get through it together. We will help as much as we can with Malfoy. You're doing a good thing, you know?"

"Yes, Harry, I know," Hermione answered quietly. "Good night, you all"

To a chorus of "Good night, Hermione" she turned around and left.

* * *

><p>She left the Ministry through the visitor entrance and felt better as soon as the fresher night air hit her face. The air was so stuffy inside the Ministry, Hermione thought it had likely suffocated time as well, so that she hadn't noticed how much had passed. It was late, and since tomorrow was going to be a very full day, she had better hurry home.<p>

Time is a curious thing, indeed, she thought on her way to the tube. If you want it to pass quickly, it moves at a snail's pace. If you need time for reflection and sanity, it runs like there's no tomorrow. You never have the right amount of it, thought Hermione, and it annoyed her greatly. It wasn't enough when she had to deal with everybody else's problems. She had taken care of Harry, and consequently Ron, ever since they started Hogwarts together, she had helped him through one of the most trying times in anybody's life.

Not that she wanted a reward for it. Goodness, no, she had done what she had to. There had been purpose in everything she had done for Harry. And it had benefited Hermione as well, of course, not to be ruled or killed by a crazy maniac who hated Muggles and Muggle-borns like herself because he couldn't get over the fact that his Muggle father had not wanted him. Although, neither had his pureblood mother.

Hermione huffed in the warm evening air. The heat of the day still clung between the walls of the buildings, driving a thin film of perspiration on her face, which only contributed to the fact that she constantly felt sweaty, dirty and worn out. But there was no time for rest. She had to prepare herself for the next day.

Hermione knew that despite being her, and therefore a straightforward example of the good guys, she was as much in danger of abusing the watched person as a more short-circuited person would be. Especially if said person was Draco Malfoy, bane of her childhood and her blooming womanhood. There was no one who had done more damage to her teenage female self-esteem, even if, in comparison, his bullying had been more along the lines of spitballs. Even though she was aware of the mechanics of what loathing another person did to her, and despite the fact that this cognition should prevent such impulsive reactions as vengeance would be, she realized that she was not infallible - especially not in her current condition.

Her rancour over Malfoy's role in this war, and his treatment of her during their school years in particular, was bound to erupt while working with him. She had deterred Ron from taking this responsibility, but she was just as much a liability when it came to Malfoy. A mature adult, someone who shared less unpleasant history with Malfoy, was much better suited for this. Only, none could be spared at the moment.

She let her wild thoughts go, just to let them out, to create the room she would have to use for restraint the next day.

How he had bullied her during school, and Harry. And Ron. Always on the lookout for ways to get them into trouble - as if they needed any help with that - always baiting Ron to snap, always riding on his family's lack of wealth. Well, where had his own wealth and upbringing gotten him, now? Nowhere, except into deep trouble, where money couldn't help at all.

With his loss of reputation, it put him almost on even footing with Ron. Only Ron was so much more than Malfoy could ever be. Brave, with a big heart, and loyal.

_Even when he left you and Harry to your grumbling stomachs? _asked her subconscious. _He came back_, snapped Hermione in her mind. _Everybody is allowed a lapse of judgment._

_Malfoy, too?_ her mind nagged.

_That is totally beside the point_, Hermione growled internally. _Besides, I love Ron._ A clench around her heart confirmed the depth of her feelings for the man who had been one of her best friends since first year and made her aware how much she ached for him. It also made her want to curse the fact that there was no time for this either. _But when we've cleaned up enough of this mess, and have recovered our senses, and stopped having nightmares and break downs and crying fits, and self-medicating we _will_ date properly._

By that time, Malfoy would have either landed himself in Azkaban because he couldn't keep his mouth shut and his unwelcome opinions to himself or knuckled under the new rule and learned to live with it. Then, she would be free to do as she pleased.

Hermione knew that the likelihood was higher for the first case. Malfoy would fight her every step of the way, and her knees almost buckled when she thought how much effort it would take to manage him. Despite her remark to Smith, she knew that the Death Eater children would not take this measure lying down. They wouldn't like it, and there would be a movement against it. She had half a mind to join it. Because she was just as angry over the circumstances they all were in. She had fought, she had sacrificed her family, her childhood, her _life _to get a life after Voldemort, and now she _still_ couldn't reap the rewards? She still had to work more to help traumatized people and these stupid Death Eater offspring to get over _their_ experiences? When was she going to get _her_ break, her time to heal?

To top it off she got Draco "Mudblood Hater" Malfoy, the one person she really couldn't stand. Oh sure, what an effect it would have if she could crush him so he would see the light.

And what was the light exactly? Working until you're dead? Sacrifice, sacrifice, and more sacrifice? Your life, your family, your freedom to walk off into the sunset and take a yearlong vacation?

Reaching this point of near desperation, Hermione decided she wasn't going to sweat it. Working with Malfoy and trying to get positive results would cost her too much energy. She would just do her assignments and tell Malfoy to do the same. If he complied, all the better. If he didn't, he would go to Azkaban, and she would be rid of him.

However, she wouldn't be Hermione Granger if she didn't think about every possible contingency. Few people knew that. They usually took her results as a given, a result of her mind-boggling time spent on research, a fact that she picked up when she read it somewhere. They didn't see how much thought she put into what she presented as a result. And so, her thoughts went beyond Malfoy's likely anger against his treatment as a representative of the losing side of the war.

Her thoughts meandered to governments and their power and its rationale. And how right it was.

That is to say, sometimes not at all.

Deep in thoughts over Kingsley's speech the previous day, and its partially volatile reception, she would have missed the two people in the dark alleyway she passed if they hadn't whispered so insistently.

"Here, take this. There's more where this came from if you need."

A relieved voice replied in a softer whisper. "Thank you. My daughter is very sick and without the Murtlap essence, we don't think she has much chance to recover quickly. Blast this no-magic rule; I'm not going to let my daughter suffer to please the Minister."

Hermione had passed the alleyway by that point, but when she heard the last part, she stopped and back stepped until she could see the two people more clearly when peering into the darkness. She briefly saw one person pat the other on the shoulder in a calming gesture but could distinguish little else about them, melted into the shadows as they were. However, they jolted into a flurry of startled movement when she said, "Excuse me -"

Two loud cracks of Apparition signalled that the two people had made off immediately. Two seconds later, before Hermione was able to continue on her way, three more cracks signalled the arrival of the No-magic police and a thrum of magic indicated the sudden establishment of a Dispellant force around the immediate area.

"Stop where you are, hold your wand arm up. Don't you dare Disapparate!" commanded a harsh voice. Hermione felt quite vividly reminded of the time the Snatchers had caught them in the Forest after Harry triggered the taboo on Voldemort's name. This time, however, she should have nothing to fear, in all honesty.

"I'm Hermione Granger. I didn't do anything. Don't stun me," she called out to the approaching wizards while she cautiously lifted both hands.

"We'll see about that. Keep your hands up, Miss."

When they had come close enough, all four relaxed as they recognised that she was indeed Hermione Granger. The unknown wizards who were dressed in dark blue robes -not unlike the Ministry maintenance workers had previously been- and had the insignia of the Office of Magical Usage Safety and Support -a large, golden OMUSS in an ellipse - applied to their chest, lowered their wands, and Hermione took a deep breath to ease the tension in her body.

"We became aware of an unregistered Apparation, Miss Granger. Did you, by any chance, see who …?"

Hermione hesitated only for a split-second, and then shook her head.

"No, I'm sorry. I can confirm two wizards but not who they were."

She hadn't recognized the wizards in any case; therefore, she wasn't able to disclose their identities. However, she hesitated to even say what they had been doing. Surely, the exchange of medical brews or potions didn't fall under the new No-magic rule and therefore, had no reason to happen underground? She had to clarify this with Harry, Kingsley, and Arthur.

The apparent leader of the OMUSS group grimaced angrily. "Alright, Miss Granger, thank you for your cooperation. Please, hurry along now, and remember – no unauthorized magic."

Hermione frowned. She was close friends with Harry Potter and close to the Minister of Magic. Surely, she didn't need reminders like this?

"I'll keep it in mind, Mr … excuse me, what was your name again?" she replied with a raised eyebrow.

As if he was guessing Hermione would cause potential difficulties with authorities, the leader grinned slyly and replied, "We are not supposed to give out our name. This is part of the new procedure and all under the new rule of the Office of Magic Usage Support and Surveillance. It's all correct, Miss Granger. Now, move along before you get caught in another icky situation."

With this, he turned and waved his team to follow, then Apparated away before Hermione could finish her offended inhalation. Did this person just threaten her and indicate that she might be caught in an illegal activity if she didn't look out? She had to have misunderstood in her befuddled state! She _really_ had to get home. She didn't feel any less angry, however.

Trudging on and steaming in righteous anger, it didn't escape Hermione that the recent war had been very black and white, with a right side and a wrong side and no middle ground.

It was entirely against rules of nature, in which only the best-adapted forms survived - those who had a little bit of this, a little bit of that - evolving to the best of both worlds.

This led her to believe that both forms of government, the current and the former, were very much artificial; as a manmade construct, of course, they were able to make up their own rules. There was no natural limit to evaluate the rules against and so, a new rule could be just as right as it could be wrong. Often, it largely depended on the law's application and enforcement. Only time would tell. Sometimes more, sometimes less time.

Of course, the people who were governed by those rules could pose limits to the laws. But what happened if you silenced a part of the people? In the best case, they simply tried to make themselves heard. In the worst case, open warfare as it just happened.

They were intricate contraptions, these governments, and when tipped out of balance, all rules had to be re-established and re-aligned. So many decisions. How far could you go to ensure that a dark wizard cannot come to power, how many people did you have to sacrifice and how, and what shouldn't you do? Is an entity allowed to mistreat people because they were on the wrong side? What if they were children at the time, does that make them blameless? If not, to what degree are they culpable? How do you control and evaluate citizens after a war?

Hermione was of course aware of the recent European history, of people spying on other people, denunciation and fear mongering, of mind and governmental control, and how close they came. It was naïve to believe they had any right to do what they did with these young adults and some minors.

What else could they do? Hermione had no better solution. Locking them up and throwing away the key wouldn't solve the problem at all.

Besides, it wasn't her place to revolutionize the government. She had done her share of fighting for what was right. All she wanted was peace and quiet nowadays. That was difficult enough.

When she got home, her time was up. Shaken up by the anger over her encounter with the No-Magic police, in addition to her regular exhausted state, Hermione was assaulted by thoughts of her torture as soon as she closed the front door behind her and shed her cloak of Hermione-Granger-the-most-powerful-witch-of-her-age. Overwhelmed by the memories of the pain from the Cruciatus curse, she slumped against the inside of her door, whimpering, breathing deeply to gain some control, and failing. Reliving the feelings of the pain tore her apart each and every time she was alone. The memories of those pureblood spectators, with their glee and superiority, who couldn't even honour dignity, added some bitter spice to the mix. Hermione felt humiliated when she thought about Bellatrix cutting into her, her blood running, her dirty blood. So did her tears, unsolicited. She hated it. She hated the fact that her parents were Muggles and that she couldn't find a stand in the Wizarding world, except if she kept working like a house-elf, showing off her magical skills, and sacrificing whatever she had left. And now she wouldn't even be able to use magic anymore, the one thing she was really good at; the one thing that proved she belonged in this world to those who doubted it. Endless desperation shrouded her view of the future in black.

She needed her potion; otherwise, there would be no way to clear her mind and to sleep at all. And whose fault was that? The whole conversation turned in circles, beginning and ending with those purebloods and with Draco Malfoy. A wave of sudden, dark anger and hate took her and shook her with the force of a gale at sea, throwing her already scrambled mind to and fro.

Oh, how the tide had turned for him. Instead of laughing and sneering down at her, he would be in her charge from now on – until she said differently. She would have control over Draco Malfoy and relish it, just like his aunt had done to her. On her command, he would go to Azkaban, and his life would be over.

The wave disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving Hermione feeling like a stranded fish gasping for air on the beach. This wasn't her. This witch vilely wanting to give into to her baser impulses of cruelty and dominate her former tormentors wasn't her. It was her wand infecting her, Bellatrix' wand, no, not Bellatrix' wand. It was her wand, and yet it was not because it was the same as Bellatrix'. Walnut, springy, twelve-and-a-half inches. It wasn't as beautifully carved as her vine wand had been, but it was neat and straight and smooth and warm. A beautiful, rich brown gave it the appearance of a valuable antique and, if it hadn't been made from precisely the same wood as Bellatrix' wand, it would have looked just the right wand for a grown-up, elegant witch who likes her notes and her life orderly -preferably sorted in a colour system. With the taint of the Bellatrix association, however, it felt right and wrong at the same time. How could it have chosen her?

Hermione shook her muddled head. Sleep, she needed sleep.

Making her way into the kitchen of her parents' house, which she had bought back in an attempt to find normality and sanctuary, she found the bottle with the Dreamless Sleep potion on the counter. It would help her through another night and sustain her wits the next day when she took Draco Malfoy to their first task.

It wasn't just a punishment for him. It was necessary assistance, but it didn't make the work any less gruesome. Without magic, their assignments would ensure that they would get dirty. Draco Malfoy would have to dirty his hands, and Hermione couldn't suppress a vindictive grin. It would do him good, for certain, and build his character if he had to buckle down for other people's needs once or twice. There would be plenty opportunity to walk waist deep in mud, she would make sure of it, and then Malfoy would see how the matter of mud got stuck on you.

How angry Draco was going to be when he found out tomorrow. Hermione didn't quite know how to feel about it. A chuckle escaped her when she imagined his shocked face, but all in all she rather felt like crying. However, that was nothing new and Hermione swallowed a healthy dose of the potion to help her sleep. Just in case. At the very least, it would slow down her excessive thinking. Slowly she made her way to her bed in her childhood room upstairs.

What would happen when Draco found out, she wondered while changing. And he would.

_You really _are _no different from me._

With this last thought, and before the fear of Malfoy disclosing her secret swallowed her whole, the draught took effect, emptied her mind, and Hermione passed out.

* * *

><p><em>P.S. Sound track for Hermione is OneRepublic "Love runs out". More action in the next chapter<em>


	4. Chapter 4

_Apologies for the delay. It's taking longer than I anticipated. Mccargi and I had a tricky plot twist to crack, plus RL and such. Rest assured that I'm working exclusively on this fic, and I'll update as soon as we have a chapter ready. _

_Warning: This chapter is not for the faint of heart. If you are sensitive to blood and/or human injuries, proceed with caution. Draco is being put to the test. As soon as they reach the ward, things become explicit, and not in a sexy way. I'm a nurse, I'm no foreigner to human conditions. But you may._

_Other than that, enjoy the journey they have to take. _

River 

* * *

><p>Chapter 4: <p>

The next morning, Hermione only made it out of bed because Crookshanks had been too impatient to allow his mistress to wake on her own. He had pawed her nose until she woke with a sneeze.

Looking at the time in shock, she scrambled out of bed and stumbled into the shower. She fed her cat, and Crookshanks would have to forgive her that there had been no morning schmooze. She would make it up to him at night. If she survived the day, that is.

She made it to the "den" just before everybody assembled went inside. The house for the re-education had been called the Detainee Education Niche, in short, D.E.N. Harry and Hermione had termed it the "den" and the acronym had quickly been taken on. The more politically correct "detainees", had quickly become the den-people. They were i_not_ /iprisoners after all, but the difference was a bit tricky to explain.

She had slept like a rock for a solid eight hours, and yet, she did not really feel refreshed. To make matters worse, her superficial hygiene routine - due to the lack of time and the fact that she would have to spend the day with a horrid Draco Malfoy - made her feel a little frazzled at the edges. Hermione tried to pull herself together while watching the group being called to pairs before walking off – she was known, after all, for her power of mind - but it was futile. Finally, only Malfoy was left, leaning against the back wall like a casual bystander, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

When she stepped forward, waiting for her name to be called like a death sentence, Malfoy realized she was the only person left to be paired and let out a bark of laughter.

"Granger? Truly? Is this supposed to be an extra punishment or a joke? I expected Potter himself to take me on."

"Malfoy." Harry barked a quick warning, but Hermione quieted him with a raised hand. The fact that Malfoy laughed over her being a possible pushover made her oddly calm, in spite of her previous frazzled nerves. He should know better. He had, of course, been there when Hermione was tortured by his aunt - and survived with her mental capacities intact, against all odds. He would learn the stuff she was made of.

"A joke, Malfoy?" she reproached him quietly while taking another step forward. "I will take you to St. Mungo's today and tomorrow. There's a special ward, just opened, for the people who suffered from the war. You can ask them if they think it's a joke. Then you can judge for yourself."

Despite all the recent bravado, Draco's face fell like an electrocuted pig. What was left was a stiff mask of loathing. Hermione took it for what it was and nodded. "Yeah, I don't feel much like laughing either these days."

She turned and walked from the room, expecting Malfoy to follow her. Harry stretched his hand out, grazing her shoulder in passing. Her only response was to pat his hand twice without breaking stride. Seeing, and loathing, this testimony of wordless understanding between two of the Golden Trio, Malfoy pushed away from the wall and stalked past Harry without paying him any attention. Not that Potter even noticed because he stared worriedly after Granger. Draco wondered if Potter anticipated particular difficulties when it came to him, Draco, and he considered further whether he should prove him right or wrong. However, at this point, Draco kept his gaze straight and followed Hermione out of the house. He knew he had no choice in the matter. He didn't even have an audience to draw attention to his situation because everyone, even the Ministry officials overseeing the other pairs, had already left. Thus, it made no sense to argue or put up a fuss. He could find an easier target for the raging anger inside.

While walking from the house, toward the deserted street, Hermione contemplated how to lay down the rules. Before she could say a word, however, Malfoy's taunts caught up with her.

"You look like death on socks, Granger. Brown ones. They don't go well with the scythe. Clashing colours, you know? What could possibly be the matter? Did the weasel not rise to his duty and cheer you up before you left?" After a small pause and before Hermione could make any reply that would remotely make sense without seeming petty, he finished with a flourish. "Well, come to think if it, brown does go well with your nest of hair."

That did it. "Shut up, Malfoy. Nobody asked for your opinion."

He chuckled. "Defensive, are we?"

Hermione turned on him. "Do you want to shut up or do you want to i_walk_ /iall the way to St. Mungo's? Because there's no way that anyone will let you Apparate on your own."

The angry clench of his jaws at the reminder that he couldn't use magic anymore and that he was in no position to argue with his handler was enough for Hermione to get a word in. She smiled grimly when she saw this realization on his face. To have the upper hand over Malfoy for once was oddly satisfying.

That is until he shocked her out of her newfound place of comfort with an uncomfortable question.

He was eyeing the wand in her hand with barely hidden anger, and when she saw the sudden light of recognition she dreaded the next words she saw coming. And there it went.

"Nice wand, Granger. Is it new? It looks familiar."

She exhaled forcefully, trying to blow off the tension that had built with the anticipation, to no avail. "Yes, it's new. Imagine that, the Snatcher who stole my wand never gave it back," she answered as quickly and as flippantly as she could to divert him from asking more questions.

With a sly gleam in his eyes and a poorly suppressed sneer, he pushed on, despite her diversion. "New or new to you?"

She'd known it. These were exactly the difficulties she had anticipated with Malfoy. His keen observation of everything uncomfortable in his opponent, which had served him so well when making difficulties for them at Hogwarts, was exactly what she feared the most about him. However, stupid questions were no reasons to be sent to Azkaban.

Gathering all her will power to focus, she said decidedly, with a tone that brooked no retort, "It's mine."

Despite her best efforts, she couldn't proudly tell him it was new, yes, it was Walnut, _and_ it was hers because she hadn't quite _made_ it hers yet. While Mr. Ollivander had been so kind to secure her a new wand and this springy walnut wand had decidedly chosen her, she missed her vine wand too much to readily accept a new one. She couldn't bring herself to tolerate the same kind of wand that had caused her so many difficulties when it belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange; a brilliant wand for a brilliant witch, even if the core - surprisingly enough, her wand contained a phoenix feather - was decidedly different from Bellatrix'. Hermione felt the hot-blooded fanaticism and ice-cold madness that shone from the eyes of Voldemort's deceased first lieutenant too close to her own muddled mind to be comfortable. Currently unable to use the clear thinking and steadfast logic she was lauded for, she felt blind in a world of new colours at the best of times, and completely disoriented and pining for her potion at the worst.

She saw in Malfoy's glance that her nervousness and insecurity shone through and that he was puzzled over the reasons. She saw the unspoken question in his eyes, was she still using his aunt's wand, and his doubt that Hermione had the chops to make it properly work for her.

Before he could ask another question she could not prevent by throwing him into prison, she harshly commanded, "I will take you by side-along Apparation, Malfoy, so, prepare yourself." When she turned to him, their height difference became apparent: she had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes.

The strain in her neck reminded her of how much strength it would take to always be one step ahead of Malfoy. While she had diverted his obnoxiousness this time, the next time was surely not far behind. It wasn't that he was unpredictable in his actions, by Golly, no. However, he was clever, and Hermione knew that she would never shut him up if she countered his justified whinging with the blunt threat of punishment. She had to outsmart him, divert him, and make him see where he was wrong and whati _he_ /icould do to make it right. The anticipation of this kind of effort almost made her eyes droop in exhaustion.

She just didn't want to put up with this waste of energy. There were so many things to be done, more important things, and she simply didn't have a limitless amount of strength. Shaking herself out of her racing, turning thoughts, she remembered that she would be able to put a stop to it in her power position. There was still the threat of Azkaban. If he refused to stop his constant and grating protesting and whining after several reprimands, who was to stop her from inventing a reason to get rid of him? Arthur had said these pairings didn't have to be forever.

One step at a time, Hermione, she admonished herself. She just had to survive until tonight. There was more potion and sleep and oblivion for a night. Just get through to tonight when you can close your door on it all.

Ignoring her fatigue, she took a deep breath and continued in a calm voice that belied her inner turmoil. "I will only say this once, so consider it your warning. We all have to give you one. Don't even try to do anything stupid. You'll be carried off to Azkaban faster than my bruises will heal. We expect you to give a helping hand with the tidying up. If you do well enough, you will be considered a free man at the end of your assessment period. How long that takes depends on how well you do. You are not a prisoner, but you are under observation. We need to know how far we can trust you not to start another purebloods-for-president campaign. After all, _your_ lot is responsible for the mess we are all in. Do you understand?"

Malfoy bit his lip and clenched his jaw again. There was something inexplicably flustered in Granger's demeanour, which made no sense, unless she actually feared him, Draco Malfoy. Try as he might, he could see no reason for that. He was in her hands, in fact, and she had just explained to him that she had the power to lock him away for good if he merely _looked_ at her wrong.

On the other hand, despite his earlier blustering, Draco was quite relieved to know that Granger, given her general principles, was in fact the least likely person to abuse such power. If the fates had put him together with, say, Zacharias Smith Draco would have been fucked. Perhaps even literally, he didn't know what that family was capable of, and he would be without any means of retribution. He was, therefore, quite grateful, to have Granger as a handler, even if he would never admit that, not even to himself.

Further, Muggle-born or not, there was no use denying that Granger was a powerful witch. For surely, if anybody could ensure his safety under the circumstances it was her, connected as she was with the highest places in the government, namely Harry Potter and his supporters. Despite her inferior height and birth, and quite contrary to her momentary flustered appearance, he knew her to possess a steely resolve, stemming from a powerful magical constitution and guided by unwavering principles.

And she had a _wand_! She possessed something that was denied him, the Malfoy heir, and the scion of generations of powerful purebloods who had carried the history of their wizarding world on their responsible shoulders. Despite knowing his situation could have been much worse, Draco felt a startling wave of fury assaulting him, heating him up from the inside. The very presence of, let alone a physical response to, such an emotion was a foreign concept. It contradicted everything he'd been taught since infancy about cool loathing and calculation being the tools of the ambitious and successful pureblood achiever. Even Aunt Bella's fanaticism had been an exception.

As he struggled with the simmering resentment that threatened to overwhelm him, Draco found himself caught in her burning eyes and unnerved at her closeness. Torn between the compulsive want to strangle her, an overload of emotions that was quite unusual, and the knowledge that such a loss of control would mean an indeterminate Azkaban stay, he felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. He was all too familiar with the feeling of being trapped and it only stoked his burning hate for the establishment all the more.

In situations like this, the most reasonable thing to do was to turn to his engrained ideology, which stood out like a beacon in the night and shone on the well-trodden paths that gave so much comfort to his troubled mind because of their familiarity. He was stuck taking orders from a Mudblood, while she witnessed his humiliation at the government's refusal of his rights as a pureblood to lead a life of privilege in _his_ world, not hers - everything was wrong, so wrong. When all felt lost, there they were, his learned prejudices rising to the surface, like Hinkypunks in the bog, showing the way.

His gaze expressed all the loathing that his situation in general and her person, as a representative of his current suppressor, in particular warranted when he finally asked, "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No," Granger replied calmly, fixing him with a glare. "Not stupid, just stubborn." Then she stretched out her arm in her typical bossy way for him to hold onto and raised her wand.

Draco looked at the thin magical stick with envy and more loathing, but there was nothing for it. He had to take her arm if he didn't want to go to Azkaban. He swallowed his last scrap of dignity before grabbing her arm and letting the magic take him away.

* * *

><p>DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG<p>

* * *

><p>When they arrived at the magically expanded fourth floor of St. Mungo's, the Albus Dumbledore Ward for Severe War Damages, Draco thought Granger had tricked him and landed him right in the middle of a battlefield to finish him off. If they hadn't been greeted by a life-size poster of Potter in the entrance area, his wand hand raised in a fist and a glorious smile on his face, he would have sought cover immediately.<p>

Nonetheless, Draco raised his hand automatically, uselessly, for protection until he realized that he wouldn't need help here – and that he had no wand to hold. Making a fist with his empty hand, he remembered the screams and the smell of blood so well. The dust and the darkness were missing, but other than that, he felt himself pull his shoulders up automatically against the amount of abhorrent noises assaulting him.

"Damages from dark curses are particularly painful and most difficult to heal. Even though it would be safe to use some magic within the rooms of St. Mungo's, by express permission of the Minister, the injuries do not allow the application of magic. We cannot close wounds magically when they have been opened by dark magic. We can brew many potions, but we can rarely use them here." Granger gave him the run-down quickly, the same way she answered teachers' questions; although, Draco had a difficult time hearing her over the blaring of human suffering. He read her lips more than he heard. Or perhaps he didn't i_want_ /ito hear.

"I can put an ear plug charm on your ears or you'll go mad within hours. All the healers do," Granger supplied in a way that she surely considered to be helpful. However, Draco wanted nothing to do with the whole scenario - the screaming, the moaning, the stench of rotting flesh, of blood, of human excrements. Frozen in the horrible tableau of injured and agonizing fellow wizards and witches, children and adults alike, Draco noticed the empty smiling faces of the healers running around, trying to soothe, to calm, to heal.

He felt crushed. Different from the challenge of staying in the good graces of the Dark Lord, finding the right amount of straightforwardness and illusion to deceive Lord Voldemort into believing that you were his most loyal servant and more valued than the rest, this collection of wizarding tragedy made Draco want to flee. He couldn't imagine himself running around like the healers, trying to i_help_ /ithese poor buggers. A picture of Draco Malfoy with an empty smile holding the hands of an old codger who was slowly bleeding out simply didn't fit into Draco's view of the world. Every fibre in his body screamed "NO!"

"What makes you think I would touch any of them?" Draco asked when he could muster enough air to breathe. It sounded a little forced, even to his own ears.

Hermione simply looked at him. He was startled to see her usual fight, that fierce glance he had just received before Apparating, extinguished from her eyes. A dull brown where usually warm, milk chocolate with a spark greeted him - a view he liked, though he would _never_ admit it to anyone - made her look a hundred years old, and Draco wondered if it had something to do with the fact that she had been in this ward before. "Because you'll hear your fellow prisoners cry in Azkaban if you don't," she replied coldly. "I'll give you five minutes to adjust. Then come find me, and I'll tell you what we can do."

He crossed his arms over his chest, the very picture of a person immune to other people crying for help, but his eyes darted around nervously.

"And smile," she admonished him. "They see enough misery already." With that, she hitched up her face and pulled it into a beatific mask of benevolent happiness – the very picture of the glorious heroine who aided Potter in victory. The difference was night and day from the scowling Granger from before, and it took a perplexed Draco took a minute to gather his senses before he could follow her.

In the end, he couldn't stand the terror of watching those injured people turn in their beds in pain. He had to move, but just running around between the beds felt stupid, and a Malfoy was not stupid.

* * *

><p>DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG<p>

* * *

><p>The rest of the day went by in a blur.<p>

However, in the middle of it, a gong sounded so loud that everyone paused immediately and turned to the source. A moment later the air shimmered in the middle of the ward and before anybody could make the association to the shimmering air of Voldemort's legacy, Harry Potter materialized to loud collective gasps of "Harry Potter!" and "Harry Potter came to see us!"

"Please stay calm." Draco heard Granger's clear voice in Sonorus raised over the dim. "This is only a very realistic picture of Harry Potter. It is called a Patrogram and it's a life-sized image paired with a Patronus charm. As you've been told, we will get to see it every day from now on because Harry cannot come to see each one of you every day. He will, eventually, but not today. Now, listen to his message."

On second sight, it became very clear that the mirage wasn't the real Potter. However, he stood as if present in the middle of the room and looked around, and even the ones who moaned the loudest in pain held their breath. Then, with a nod, he spoke.

"My fellow wizards and witches, my name is Harry Potter, and I defeated Voldemort. I know I should have done so a lot earlier, and I cannot apologize enough that I needed the time that it took me. If I had been quicker and followed the good advice given to me more closely, I could have prevented many deaths and much suffering. I am sorry." At this point, Harry lowered his head and his shoulders slumped, displaying the very picture of a young man who had a life sentence to carry, a burden he would never lose. An outcry went through the ward.

"Harry Potter, no …"

"You saved us; he would have killed us all …"

"Our saviour…"

"Oh, look at the lad. Isn't he fine?" The remonstrance sounded from all sides. Draco felt like throwing up at the obvious worshipping of the Holy Potter. Before he could give room to his visceral feelings, he saw Granger standing a few feet away from him, observing the image of her best friend with calculating calmness. Draco knew that expression of hers. He'd seen it many times. It was the same one she wore when Draco and the weasel got into a tussle, and she puzzled over how to break it up with a well-thrown remark that would stop Draco in his tracks. Draco didn't like that expression at all; usually, it didn't bode well for him, but in this moment, at least, it told him that Granger hadn't taken leave of her critical thinking with regards to the new government initiatives.

Just then, Potter carried on. "Please stop wincing at his name. He is dead, and Albus Dumbledore, who was the greatest wizard of all time, told me once, fear of a name only increases fear of the person. He wasn't the perfect advisor, but he was the best for me.

"You all know my story: how Voldemort killed my parents and how I came to live without any magic for the next ten years. When I got my letter to Hogwarts," a few people cheered at this point, "knowing I was a wizard was like a miracle to me. Being magical, I knew I was special."

Harry's Patrogram paused. Draco could barely suppress a snort. He was sure that the crowd, listening with bated breath, wouldn't have appreciated a disparaging noise. Besides, he knew what almost happened to Pansy's father. He wouldn't put it beyond these cripples to try to throw human detritus at him. Ewww.

'Harry' continued. "We are all special with our magic. Each and every one of us; you, me, and your next-door neighbour. Magic is a terrible and wonderful thing. It is wonderful because it makes many things so easy. Just a swish of your wand and your house rebuilds itself. Just a tap and your dinner cooks on its own. Just a potion and all your pains and aches are healed. But…" 'Harry' waited for an ominous second.

"It is also terrible, because in the wrong hands it can create spells that destroy. We have the Unforgivables and a slew of other spells and curses intending to do harm to our fellows. That is exactly the situation we are in, at the moment. Voldemort and his followers left a legacy that makes the use of magic very dangerous. The Apocalypto curse!" Affirmative cries and wails reverberated through the ward, followed by the hush of the ones who weren't in mortal pain.

'Harry' carried on in his grave voice. "We don't know how it works yet, only that it prohibits the use of any other magic once the curse is applied. The consequences are horrible." At this point, 'Harry' looked like his best friend had died, and it had the required effect. Everybody in the ward either gasped or nodded sagely.

"Take a look at it and join me in seeing how horrible it is!" Harry's voice intonated when the image changed to shimmering air hovering over a field. To Draco it looked like waves of energy one sees in the summer heat. Thus, he was quite scandalized and alienated when he noted people's angry and vicious reactions. The same people who had just suffered greatly and loudly were now able to raise themselves in their beds to hiss and shout and curse at the image in the middle of the room. A quick glance at Granger confirmed that she hadn't known about this. The shock on her face showed clearly that the people's reaction upset her most because it caught her completely unawares.

After a minute, 'Harry' went on with a grim expression of determination. "The whole Department of Mysteries and half of the Ministry staff are working on how to dissemble this terrible magic. I therefore ask you, my fellow wizards and witches, to bear with me and to stop using magic until we've found the solution. I know it will be very hard to step back from our specialty. For many of you who have grown up with magic, this seems unfathomable, but those of us who have been brought up by Muggles, or are related to Muggles, know it's not impossible. We have to work together. I am working together with the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, who has ordered every person available to help with this undertaking. I will give you updates this way every day. Our Minister, who has only your welfare in mind, has decided that we will give you lessons on how to live without magic every day by Patronus-hologram, i.e. Patrogram as well."

With a deep breath, 'Harry' went onto the finishing line. At least, Draco hoped he was getting to the end of this sermon. "Remember, we all have to work together to rebuild our country after the war against Voldemort. Every helping hand will contribute. Please, join me now in listening to my dear friends and fellow Order of the Phoenix members, Dedalus Diggle, as he explains the use of towels instead of drying spells, and Minerva McGonagall as she demonstrates how to light a fire with matches."

With his last word, 'Harry' made a small bow of respect to the sufferers from the war, and then the image changed to the small man with his hat askew, who looked positively excited to be able to explain the use of towels.

"Fellow wizards and witches, you all know what a towel is, and you all know what a shower is. I know, I know, some of you skip showering altogether and use a Scourgify charm when pressed for time, but that is one thing we _must _resist doing, my dear friends. Use the showers every day or use plain water and soap to clean yourself, and then rub yourself off with the towels. It works just as well and is a lot softer than a spell. It won't make your hair stand on end the way our magic does." At this point, he winked at his viewers and pushed his hat a little further up without any lasting effect. It slipped right back down. He continued untroubled.

"Afterward you hang the wet towel on a hook in the wall, and the next time you want to clean yourself it is ready to use. This is all very easy, once you get used to it. Tomorrow, I will explain to you how to cover a wound with bandages and disinfectant." He preened with unadulterated joy.

"I'm giving over to the esteemed Minerva McGonagall. She will explain how to light a fire using matches."

The image changed to the Headmistress of Hogwarts who looked her usual commandeering self. She sent a stern look over the top of her glasses and set off.

"Thank you, Dedalus. Dear wizards and witches, as much as it pains me to say this, we must resist using magic at this time. I will now explain to you how to light a fire with the matches you've been sent. Each family has received a box of matches by owl this morning. Please keep it out of the hands of children as lighting a match has consequences, not only in setting fire to beds but also in burning down quickly. The matches will have to last a few days until we can supply you with more."

"Now," she carried on without pause," a parchment of instructions has been delivered with the matches. Please, pile wood and paper in your fireplace as instructed in the drawing. Once you've done this, strike the coloured head of a match, using only one at a time, over the red side of the box until a flame appears. Don't be startled, it will light with a whoosh and it will be hot, so keep your fingers at the wooden end of the match. Give the flame a few seconds to settle, and only then put the ignited end of the match under the lowest point of the pile, so that a piece of paper can catch fire. If it doesn't catch on immediately, you can carefully blow some air into it. Be cautious that you don't blow it out again. Start with a soft blow, instead of a harsh puff. Once the fire is established, pay attention to the fact that the wood will burn down, and you will have to put a new log on the burning fire every hour. If you adhere to the given instructions, you should not find it difficult to light or to keep a fire going. Store the matchbox in a dry place and out of reach of your children. They have proven to delight in lighting matches without supervision and then dropping them with a start, which will lead to fire in unwelcome places and subsequent injuries."

Minerva McGonagall gave a hearty sigh. "If, however, you do encounter difficulties, please, do not hesitate to ask a fellow wizard or witch of Muggle descent to help out. If you don't know anyone, owl Dedalus, myself, or the Ministry Office of Manual Skills Education and Support for advice. We will be happy to direct you to a Muggle-born who does know for future reference.

"This is all for today. We will be back with more advice tomorrow. I bid you a good day. Stay strong. We will pull through this together." Minerva raised a clenched fist for emphasis, and was joined for a moment by Dedalus and Harry in the image, both making the same gesture. Then the image disappeared entirely, and the few people who could broke out in applause.

_Pompous arse_, Draco thought while the din of chatter due to the unexpected appearance of their saviour gave way to renewed moans and whimpers. _Of all the people who should represent our magical world it had to be this specky, Muggle-raised git,_ Draco thought with malice. _Our world is going to the dogs, with me, the Pureblood Scion wiping whiny arses and Potter being the Holy Saviour,_ he considered with a frown and a shudder before he resumed his work of the day running from one bed to the next.

Later the same day, Draco took a mental break and wandered, exploring the whole fourth floor, trying to get away, and ended up in the Janus Thickey ward. When Hermione saw him later, he was folding and unfolding a candy wrapper over and over in his hands, aligning the edges, folding and creasing, then unfolding it again to start all over at a different edge. Struck by understanding, Hermione put her hand gently over his busy ones to arrest his compulsive movement. He looked up startled, and Hermione was touched to see naked horror clouding his usually clear orbs.

Caught in this brief moment between two worlds, Draco was astounded to see that understanding was just one emotion reflected in her eyes. It was all there: disgust and blame, along with an angry compassion that made her eyes gleam like cruel hard diamonds and some softness that Draco couldn't and didn't want to place. Realizing that he stood alone with her in an empty corridor, he shivered, pulled his hands out from under hers, and put the wrapper in his pocket.

"Come on," Hermione said softly. "We have work to do."

As if a spell had been lifted, his eyes cleared and focused on where Hermione's hands had been. Then he focused on her. "Don't patronize me, Granger," he hissed. "And don't touch me like one of your friends."

Hermione pulled her hands back as if they had been burned. 

* * *

><p>DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG<p>

* * *

><p>Draco was not aware if he even ate, drank, or went to the loo. He felt hollow from trying to be everywhere at once and not succeeding; hollow and exceedingly exhausted, torn between wanting to run to the screams to stop them and wanting to run far away where he would never hear them again. Even with his earplug charm, he had felt the screams reverberate in the air. More than once, he had stood elbow deep in blood trying to stem a broken valve. The worst part had been that he had to wait for somebody else to clean the blood off him because he had no wand. On top of the horror of dealing with this suffering human mess, he felt helpless as a wizard without wand - literally. He also couldn't shake the nagging feeling of guilt. The war had taken place because of Voldemort, and if nobody had supported him and his crazy ideas, most of these people wouldn't be here. He had seen the healers close a few eyes forever, and he hadn't even known the name or if they had family. The healers had taken care of the rest.<p>

Draco saw Granger sitting with patients, just holding their hands and talking, telling them stories of how Potter and she defeated Voldemort, taking the patients' minds off things or building their resilience. He was surprised that he understood that touch and time were the best healers.

At the end of day, a little girl of maybe eight or nine stayed most vividly in his mind. She had needed help going to the loo and she had pulled on his clothes while he ran by her bed. A ricocheting spell in a Death Eater attack on an unsuspecting village had cost her an arm and a foot, and due to the dark nature of the spell Skele-grow was not an option. Granger had been nowhere to be found; therefore, Draco had to help her up, accompany her and put her back to bed. She couldn't hold herself up and wipe at the same time and so, Draco had to do it for her. He had tried to give her a smile when she thanked him, he really had. It hadn't been her fault, she was just a girl, but his smile must have been a little crooked because the girl had looked a little uncertain at his face. Draco realized that he hadn't been able to feel his face properly because his head felt ready to burst from trying to rationalize all this human misery.

Granger found him 15 minutes later in the dirty laundry pantry. If she saw his red eyes in the dark, she didn't comment on them. She just told him to get his arse back out there. 

* * *

><p>DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG<p>

* * *

><p>At the end of the day, Granger Apparated him back to the den. As soon as they touched the ground, Draco let go of her arm and turned toward the house.<p>

"Be ready tomorrow. I'll pick you up at the same time as today." He heard Granger's strained voice behind him.

In a sudden angry reaction to a world gone crazy with misery, he whirled around, went two fuming steps back and hissed, "Or what, Granger? You send me to Azkaban in my pyjamas? Been pining to look at my pureblood arse, have you? Not that I have a choice, here. After all, we are here to serve you triumphant winners of the war."

Granger eyed him coolly. "I would give you two minutes to slip into your clothes before I called on the Ministry. That would mean you would be in less than impeccable condition when facing other people. Do you want that, Malfoy? Isn't it most important to you to show how Malfoys are always so above dirt and human conditions? Cleanliness being next to godliness and all?" She chuckled darkly. "I have yet to see you with a hair out of place. It might be worth the experience to see how you look in the morning before your preening."

Draco gave her a dark look and turned back around. "I'll be ready."

He barely heard Granger say, "Good night, Malfoy," before he simply closed the door behind him with a little unnecessary force, because he felt like it.

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><p><em>As usual, let me know what you think. :-)<em>


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